Lethal Factor

by Gabrielle Lord

  He smiled, showing a lot of large teeth, and opened the door, standing back as I walked outside.

  I could see him watching after me as I drove away. Fuck you, Toby Speed, I swore as I moved through the gears too fast and too hard. I tried to remember the Croatian words Speed had quoted, fishing my notebook and pen out, slowing down so I could scribble an approximation of them. Then, exhausted and frustrated, I found a motel in town and hit the sack after an early dinner. First thing in the morning I headed back up to Sydney. There was someone who could tell me about the way of the Cross.

  •

  Two hours later, the windmills were spinning like crazy when I heard her footsteps coming down the hall. But this time, when she opened the door, it was on its chain and all I could see was the edge of her face.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked as I identified myself. There would be no peach wine offers made today.

  ‘Just a few questions,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve told you everything,’ she said. ‘Now please go.’

  I pulled out my scribbled rendition of Toby Speed’s words and tried them on.

  ‘What’s the “Kryzni put”?’ I asked. ‘What does “the way of the Cross” mean to you?’

  ‘Go away!’ she cried. ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’ She closed the door but I could see her through the frosted glass still standing there in the hallway.

  ‘Please, Ksenia,’ I said. ‘I need your help. You’re the only person who might be able to shed some light on some of the things I’ve heard about Sister Gertrude and her father.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ There was fear in her voice.

  I took a punt, repeating the disconnected facts I’d heard, hoping she’d assume I knew more than I did, and say something that would help me put them together. I remembered her reference to the ‘old country’ and the date of Sister Gertrude’s entrance into the convent. ‘Your nephew was killed in Yugoslavia in 1972,’ I said with more authority than I felt. ‘Your niece entered the convent shortly after. Your brother-in-law had a contact in ASIO,’ I said. ‘What was going on?’

  I heard Ksenia run away down the hall. The house fell silent and I turned and walked away, kicking a windmill so that it spun itself into the dirt and stayed stuck upside down.

  Back in the car, sick of driving the same roads, I went south again, heading back to Forensic Services in the afternoon.

  •

  The day that had been chilly in the Central Highlands and fair in Sydney was bleak and blustery in the nation’s capital, and I could feel snow in the air. I was still pissed off at the blatant way in which Toby Speed had played me. I rang Bob and told him what had happened.

  ‘Sounds like he just wanted to know what you knew,’ said Bob. ‘That’s Speed.’

  ‘He was more interested in what I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘He seemed pleased with himself, as if I was missing the whole point of something big.’

  ‘If his lot was involved, there’s a whole other story going on,’ said Bob, ‘that he knows that we don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to turn up your mate from the old Special Investigations Unit. Can you do that? I’ve got to find someone who’s willing to tell me what’s going on. I’m going to have to take a much closer look at Sister Gertrude’s family.’

  ‘You could try poor old Neil,’ Bob said. ‘If you can find him. He was passionate about the work of the SIU.’

  ‘I’ll find him, Bob,’ I said. ‘Just give me his last known address.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can turn up.’

  ‘Bob—’ I glanced down at my scribbled words, trying to remember how Toby Speed had said it, ‘does the expression “Kryzni put” mean anything to you?’

  ‘Can’t help you. Why should it?’

  ‘It means “the way of the Cross” in Croatian.’

  ‘Mate,’ said Bob, ringing off, ‘Croatian is not one of my skills. And neither is religion.’

  I was still feeling hard done by when the phone rang again and it took me a few seconds to get my head around what Florence was saying.

  ‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ she said. ‘That postal bag you gave me that had the aftershave in it is an investigator’s nightmare. There are traces of everything all over it. Every man and his dog who’s touched it. God knows how long it will take me to sort it all out—if I ever can.’

  The presence of a multiplicity of DNA material always creates problems for analysts. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful off it at all,’ she continued. ‘There was nothing around the stamps or the seal that’s helpful. Whoever did this knows what he’s doing. I checked with Australia Post. Do you know how many articles go through every day?’

  ‘I was never very hopeful, Florence,’ I said. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  ‘I’ll keep going with it, just in case,’ she said.

  ‘The good news?’ I asked, still smarting at the way Toby Speed had got his money’s worth from me.

  ‘The profile from the most recent campus assault,’ she said and I thought of Iona lying in hospital with her split forehead and grazed face. ‘I got some good clear material from the fur collar the woman was wearing.’

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘No match with the other two, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That was the good news?’ I asked.

  ‘With the way things are round here,’ she said, ‘it’s the best I can do. Oh,’ she added, ‘Henry’s taking a few days off. So that’s nice.’

  Odd, I thought, my mind still preoccupied with the campus attack on Iona. Same place of attack, different offender. We must have a copycat.

  ‘How are you going with Sister Gertrude’s clothing?’ I asked, still hopeful of getting a profile of the killer from somewhere.

  ‘Very disappointing,’ said Florence. ‘I’ve tried cutting samples from different parts of her clothing. I’m not getting anything. All NR.’

  Not Reportable. The bad guys learn from cop shows like CSI how not to leave traces. ‘The crooks are getting too well educated,’ I said.

  ‘Keeps us on our toes,’ said Florence. ‘I should have the results from the knife and hatchet you found out at the convent soon,’ she said. ‘Might be something there. Cheer up.’

  ‘Jeremiah handled the hatchet,’ I told her. ‘But he reckons he didn’t touch the knife.’

  ‘He’ll still be all over it,’ she said. ‘It was under his clothing.’

  She rang off and I pulled my earpiece out, even more pissed off. The defence would lean on this, so that reasonable doubt was created in any jury. Charging Jeremiah already looked like a waste of time.

  Half an hour later, I was back in my office, checking email and phone messages.

  As if I didn’t have enough to do, there was the drawling voice of Professor Lennie Lowenstein, at a hotel in Sydney and wanting Digby to ring him as soon as possible.

  I rang him back. I had to tell him about Livvy Worthington and how I’d be looking after him now.

  ‘That’s a terrible thing,’ he said, shocked at my news. ‘We only spoke a few days ago. He was so keen and said how much he was looking forward to my visit. And I wanted to talk to him about his paper on the protease he’s working on. I must say I’m impressed at what you guys can do in the research field in your spare time. Our lab doesn’t seem to have any spare time for private research.’

  ‘We don’t either,’ I said. ‘But we work in with the university. And Digby is devoted,’ I said. ‘His Myrmecia pilosula live at home with him.’

  ‘His what?’ said Dr Lowenstein.

  ‘His ants,’ I said. I felt sure that Digby would have told Lennie Lowenstein all about them.

  ‘You say it was the second death from BA?’ Lowenstein was asking. ‘Are your authorities tre
ating it as terrorism?’

  ‘At this stage we’re still unsure. I lean more towards personal malice than ideological extremity.’

  ‘It’s the same back home,’ said Lowenstein. ‘Although some parties reckon they’re pretty damn certain who’s responsible.’

  ‘We haven’t even got a name yet,’ I said, ‘right or wrong.’

  He asked me about sightseeing in Sydney and I gave him a few tips. ‘Try getting out to Pinchgut Island on the Harbour,’ I said, ‘and you must take in the Zoo.’

  Lowenstein said he would.

  ‘I’ll do everything to make your visit down here as fruitful as possible,’ I said. ‘Digby has already booked you in at University House, which is where I live when I’m down here. You’ll find it’s very comfortable if you don’t mind things a bit old-fashioned.’

  ‘Sounds fine to me,’ said Lowenstein. ‘I’m looking forward to it. And Digby said there was some memorial dinner and lecture he’s giving? Is that still happening? If so I hope I can get a ticket to that.’

  I made a mental note to check whether Digby was doing the Wesley Morton lecture, in spite of everything.

  ‘I’ll find out. Getting tickets will be no problem,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the university would be delighted to extend an invitation to you. I’ll sort that out. Leave it with me.’

  Dr Lowenstein expressed his gratitude in the natural, gracious manner that is one of the best aspects of many Americans. ‘And please convey my deepest sympathy to Dr Worthington,’ he added. ‘I’ve brought a copy of the journal that published his most recent paper. They were so impressed that they’re commissioning another. That might cheer him up a bit.’

  I promised I’d pass on this news.

  I made a few phone calls, trying to track down any members of the SIU, especially Neil Stewart, but drew blanks on all counts. All I could do was hope that Bob could come up with an address. Even if it was an old one, it was a point to start from.

  I put the phone down from yet another fruitless conversation and it was then I became aware of an unusual stillness in the corridors and labs. Maybe there was a staff meeting that I’d forgotten about. I walked down the corridor to find that Jane wasn’t in her office. In fact, no one seemed to be around. I was about to go upstairs to the secretary’s office in case I was missing something I should be at, when Jane suddenly appeared around the corner, nearly knocking me over.

  ‘There you are!’ she said. ‘We’ve just realised that Henry’s gone! Vanished. Bolted. No one knows where he is. Florence’s just back from his place.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘He had a terrible hissy fit while you were away,’ said Jane. Digby dropped by to pick up some letters from the secretary and Henry got stuck into him. It was really awful. We could hear them all through the place. Yelling and screaming. Then he stormed out. And that’s it. He hasn’t contacted anyone. I was ringing on and off. No answer. I thought he was just sulking. But Florence was concerned.’

  ‘He’ll turn up,’ I said. I wondered if Lennie Lowenstein had to deal with problems like this at his laboratory. Then I remembered what had been teasing me since my telephone conversation with Lowenstein. ‘Is Digby trying to isolate a protein-snipping protease from his ants?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve never been really sure of his ants thing,’ said Jane. ‘But that’s probably it. I know it’s something to do with immunotoxins.’

  I went downstairs to Florence’s lab and found her putting samples away, cold air swirling like mist around her gloved hands as she stacked them in.

  ‘Bloody Henry,’ said Florence. ‘I’ve just lost an hour out of my day going out to his place. How dare he take off like this and not give me any notice! I’m already overloaded and now I suppose I’ll have to pick up his projects, too. I don’t know how I’m going to manage.’ Bloody Henry, I agreed silently.

  ‘I’ll have a look at the jobs and see what we might put on hold for a while,’ I said. ‘And maybe we could get some of the honours students from the university to help out with the more routine testing. Supervised, of course.’

  Florence sighed. ‘That might make even more work.’ She turned to her desk. ‘Here are the approximate dates and times you requested where the scanning electron microscope was used without my authority.’ She handed me a piece of paper. ‘I’m 100 per cent sure about the dates. The times are a bit iffy.’

  ‘Henry might have gone into hiding,’ I suggested. ‘He might think he’s next on the killer’s list.’

  Florence gave me a look. Then she went over to the door of the lab, looked up and down the corridor and closed it. We were alone in the air-conditioned room. ‘I’m thinking something quite different,’ she said. ‘It’s been on my mind, so I might as well say it.’ She paused. I put the note in my pocket and Florence lowered her voice further. ‘This is strictly between you and me, Jack,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘But I think Henry should be investigated.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked, although I thought I knew exactly where she was heading. It had occurred to me, too.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘The profile of the anthrax letter killer that was published. Henry walks right out of that description. He’s full of resentment. And I’ve just heard from a friend in Sydney that he and Tony Bonning had the most dreadful argument at the Forensic Society Dinner last Christmas. They’d both worked on certifying some case and Henry reckoned Bonning’s results were wrong. My friend said it was so embarrassing she couldn’t finish her cheesecake.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything about that,’ I said, making a note to follow it up.

  ‘You never go to things like that,’ she said. ‘So how could you know?’

  ‘It’s a very serious allegation,’ I said.

  Florence raised her hands and I noticed a large new gold and amethyst ring on her finger. ‘I’m not making an allegation,’ she said. ‘I’m just suggesting that Henry should be investigated. There’s no question that he’d be able to do it technically.’

  ‘Florence,’ I reminded her, ‘the same could be said of any of us.’

  ‘I know, I know. But he fits the profile.’ She drew closer. ‘And,’ she said, lowering her voice even more, ‘he was always talking about it. Always saying how dreadful it was and what a worrying thing it was, knowing that someone was targeting scientists. He was going on about it, reckoning he’d be next on the list.’ She walked across the lab and picked up another tray of tiny ampoules and slid them into the freezer.

  ‘Florence,’ I said. ‘It’s a genuine fear. For all of us. I’ve worked on cases with Tony Bonning too. I’ve seen his signature on cases I’ve analysed. And I’ll bet your name shows up now and then.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ she said. ‘The best way to hide something is to put it right under people’s noses. Henry is always moaning about something. The best way to allay suspicion would always be to present yourself as a potential victim.’

  I recalled my last run-in with Henry. ‘The next victim,’ he’d said, ‘might be me. Or it might be you.’ At the time, I’d just put it down to Henry’s paranoia. Now it almost sounded like a threat.

  ‘And he’s got a well-equipped lab out where he lives,’ she said. ‘He could make nuclear weapons out there and no one would be any the wiser.’

  I had to admit she had a point.

  ‘And,’ Florence continued, ‘you saw for yourself that the spores that killed Tony Bonning and Livvy Worthington weren’t from a weaponised source—there were no carriers added. They were handmade.’

  She was right. I thanked her, promised her discretion and went back to my office. Funny how often a person can’t see what’s in front of them, even a scientist. As long as I’d known Henry, he’d always been the sort of person who saw himself as victimised by the world. He nursed resentments. He was a loner, he was a scientist.
He had more than a working knowledge of microbiology. Florence was right. He could have walked out of the profile. And now he’d disappeared.

  My desk phone was ringing as I walked into the office and I snatched it up, still considering Florence’s words. It was Brian Kruger.

  ‘Our friend Jeremiah Dokic is in hospital. We let him go to the bog during an interview and he drank a bottle of heavy-duty toilet cleaner. We took him to the hospital. They pumped him out. It was touch and go for a while. Nearly lost him.’

  ‘When did this all happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Last night,’ said Brian. ‘He’s out of danger now, but there could be nerve damage. He might be only a shadow of his former self.’

  ‘He’s terrified,’ I said.

  ‘Mate,’ said Brian, ‘don’t I know it. But what about? And who?’

  ‘Father Oswald,’ I said. ‘That name mean anything to you?’

  ‘He’s some holy old geezer who lives in the bush. He’s been there for years. Reckons he has visions or something. More likely the horrors.’

  ‘He’s a priest,’ I said. ‘He was an acquaintance of Sister Gertrude. He was her spiritual director.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Kruger asked.

  ‘It’s a holy thing,’ I said. ‘An intimate spiritual relationship.’

  ‘You’re not saying he was slipping her one?’ Kruger’s voice was incredulous.

  ‘I wasn’t, no,’ I said. ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘In a funny sort of way,’ said Brian. ‘We had to break up a brawl in town a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s a fighting priest,’ I said. ‘Muscular Christianity?’

  ‘We were called out after a fight at a club. He’d been having a drink, or so he said, with a couple of friends when some dickhead picked him. No charges or anything. He handled himself pretty well for a reverend, I remember. And an old fellow, too.’

  ‘I want to talk to him,’ I said.

  ‘You could try his church in the scrub.’

  ‘I’ve done that,’ I said. ‘There was no one there when I went out a couple of days ago. Can you think of anyone who might know where he is?’