Lethal Factor

by Gabrielle Lord

  Colin rang early the next morning, waking me from a heavy sleep. ‘We’ll have to set up another time,’ I said. ‘To get that bastard Cash.’ There was a pause at the other end of the line.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. I’m being moved in a hurry. I’m sorry mate. I really am. You’ve got enough on the mongrel to charge him.’

  ‘You know what I want,’ I said. ‘I want him to go down for the count. I want to eat his heart.’

  Until I had that bastard locked up, I couldn’t rest.

  ‘Mate,’ said Colin. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  He rang off and I felt shithouse about him, about Marko Gavrilovic getting away with murder, about every bloody thing in my life right now.

  I glanced up at the framed black and white photograph of my little sister hanging in the hall as I walked past. Jacinta had referred to her as her guardian angel a couple of years ago. ‘Rosie,’ I whispered to her. ‘I need you to keep Jacinta safe.’ I lifted the photograph off the wall and carried it down to the kitchen. I wanted Rosie right here, in the heart of my family. I took down the calendar next to the fridge and hung Rosie there instead so that she looked out onto the living area.

  •

  Jacinta slept in and I had to wake her. She was not happy about that, either. After her shower, her mood improved and she drifted around eating a bowl of muesli. I resisted the urge to suggest she sit at the table like a civilised person. She wasn’t one of those, really, and often neither was I.

  ‘I know I’m being a real Barbie, but after last night I think I should move in with Andy,’ she said, flinging herself on the lounge, almost spilling the contents of her bowl.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want you going to tech for a while. I don’t want you going to any of your known haunts until we sort this out. I can organise a medical certificate for tech if you need one.’

  ‘I don’t feel good about this, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m just using Andy for a safe place to live.’

  ‘There’s always Canberra,’ I reminded her. ‘I can have a house organised within a day or two. And remember,’ I said, ‘home study only. Don’t go to tech. And don’t come back here. If there’s anything you need, ask me or Charlie. Or Bob, if he’s around.’

  She squinted towards the fridge where the calendar had been. ‘Do you have two pictures of Rosie, or is that the same one?’ she asked.

  ‘I just moved it then. It’s the same one.’ And as I said those last words, a wave of energy rolled through me. Of course, I thought as a door in my mind opened wide and showed me a possible way to put Marko Gavrilovic back at the convent crime scene. I was aware of Jacinta’s voice, but nothing of what she was saying penetrated. I had hit on something that would give us Gavrilovic. It’s the same one, I thought. Of course it is. And it was there all the time.

  ‘Dad? What is it?’ Jacinta was suddenly in front of me. I brought my attention back to my daughter, aware of the puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘You were just standing there like you were freaked out or something. You okay?’

  ‘Too right,’ I said. ‘Let’s start packing you up.’

  A short while later, Jacinta gave me the address and phone number of Andy’s flat and set off in her new car, suitcases piled in the back.

  I stepped back, watching her drive away, glad she was moving to a new address. I felt free now to focus on getting Gavrilovic. Locard’s famous statement regarding the transference of particles and physical evidence filled my mind: ‘Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent, only its interpretation can err. Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.’

  I had almost failed this principle. Failed to find what I needed. But my response to Jacinta’s question had given me the answer. I glanced at the image of my little sister. ‘Thanks Rosie,’ I said. Because if my insight was right, I had a fighting chance to put Gavrilovic back at the crime scene. In Sister Gertrude’s room. Beyond any shadow of a doubt.

  I rang young Ryan Holbrook at Physical Evidence and told him what I needed and why. He said he’d be happy to meet me at Ksenia’s house with the keys. He was there before I was and he supervised the opening of the place and watched while I went in, found what I wanted, bagged and sealed it and signed it out so that the chain of custody was duly recorded. Holbrook relocked the place, we shook hands and I stowed my package in the car and drove down to Canberra, my head aching from too much inspiration and not enough sleep.

  •

  I went to University House and crashed out for a few hours before heading into Forensic Services.

  I was pleased to get in out of the cold wind that cut through me like a knife. It was quiet on Sunday and the labs and corridors were almost empty. Just the workaholics were around, those who wanted to get away from mowing lawns or taking kids out, those avoiding time with the spouse, the sort of people Jacinta with her youthful folly referred to as ‘tragic saddos’.

  I took the object out of its packet and examined it carefully, going all over it with my magnifying glass. There it was. It was barely visible against the dark colour and I’d almost missed it. I couldn’t believe my luck. I did the lift myself, as carefully as I knew how and to say I was pleased at the result was an understatement. I scanned it into the system and made copies of it. I was very confident that soon I’d be sending it on its way to NAFIS, the national fingerprint database. Once I’d done that, I prepared the swipe samples I’d taken for the PCR process.

  It was early evening by the time I left, with the DNA extraction done, and the automated profiling system up and running. I felt better than I had in days—more hopeful, more sure that this investigation would not stall. On the way to the car park I ducked under an overhanging bough, noticing as I did a tiny woven bird’s nest, with four blue eggs in it, lying on the ground. This wasn’t the time for nesting so it must have been an abandoned nest from last season, blown out of the tree, shaken by the strong winds. Carefully, I picked it up. It was an exquisite thing, beautifully crafted. The eggs were as light as paper, their contents long ago evaporated. I put it in the glove box.

  I went back to University House, wondering what to do about dinner. I rang the flat at North Bondi. Jacinta answered. She was fine, she said. ‘I’ve unpacked already, I’m having a coffee and I’m actually truly studying.’

  I was about to ring and order something to be brought to my room on a tray when my phone rang and my heart beat faster when I heard that voice. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘You’re safely home.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re a hard one to catch.’

  ‘I come and go a lot,’ I said. ‘It’s the job. How are you?’

  ‘Still a bit bruised, but a hundred per cent better than when you last saw me.’ She paused. ‘Look, this is just an impulse. I realised I’ve cooked far too much for me to eat. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s fried rice. Vegetarian fried rice.’

  ‘I’ll see you in thirty minutes,’ I said. I wouldn’t have cared if she’d been cooking turnips.

  I had a shower, dressed, tried and failed to find any flowers in any of the little shops I passed and arrived at Iona’s rented cottage empty-handed. Then I remembered the perfect little nest and took it out of the glove box.

  She came to the door and made me come in and warm myself at the open fire. I couldn’t help noticing some good watercolours on the walls, and also the strange painting of the little blue monkey that I’d seen some years ago, in the house she’d lived in in Sydney.

  ‘I brought you this,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t find any flowers.’

  She took the woven nest from me and smiled. ‘It’s beautiful. What sort of bird is it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not s
ure,’ I said. ‘Could be a finch of some kind.’

  She put it reverentially on the shelf over the fireplace and I saw where a table for two had been set in the corner near the fire. Within a few minutes, Iona had taken off her apron, done her hair and was sitting opposite me with our plates of fried rice in front of us. The swelling around her eye had lessened and the bruises were more colourful than when I’d last seen her.

  ‘We need to catch up with each other,’ she said.

  We talked a bit about her family. Unlike me, she had no one left now. I told her a bit about my father and, as I spoke, I knew I’d have to visit him soon. ‘It’s much easier,’ I said, thinking of my mother, ‘when they’re in heaven.’

  ‘Or wherever they go,’ she said, looking up at me from under her bruised brows.

  ‘Iona,’ I said and her dark eyes widened, alerted by the seriousness of my tone.

  ‘I am very drawn to you,’ I said. ‘But at the moment, I’m not in a position to—’ I searched for a word.

  She found it for me. ‘Court me?’ she said and the smile was back. I nodded.

  ‘And I’m not really in a position to be courted,’ she said. ‘Despite my behaviour of the other night. I want to concentrate on my studies and just take my time to get acclimatised to this new city. And learn some more about you, too.’

  ‘That sounds wise,’ I said. Why then did I feel this heavy disappointment? ‘Then it’s settled.’ I noticed she’d remembered my history and our glasses were filled with mineral water. I raised mine.

  ‘To good friends,’ I toasted.

  Iona clinked her glass on mine. ‘Good friends,’ she said.

  I looked at her. Her eyes were shining and I leaned across and kissed her mouth, a soft, quick kiss. ‘Let’s have a picnic,’ I said. ‘When it gets warmer. Down by the river.’ I told her about the pepper trees and the willow, bare now, but soon to be covered in a fine green mist near the bridge at Seven Oaks.

  After a wicked chocolate slice and coffee, I thanked her and went home. I barely had time to feel pleased about the picnic under the pepper tree before I was asleep.

  •

  When I did a quick tidy-up in the morning I found the little gift-wrapped box that Alix had thrown at me, during our last encounter. I was about to chuck it in the bin, but instead, I opened it. It was a fancy square candle, wrapped in cellophane with a little note attached: ‘Looking forward to lighting this and making love to you by its light.’ Instead of signing it, she’d imprinted a lipsticked kiss at the bottom. I left the candle near the phone for the cleaner to take, and pocketed the note, carefully folding it up to protect the kiss print. I needed the occasional known control sample for the database. It would be very good, I thought, to have this woman on my books. That way, if she ever bothered me again, I’d have her on toast. It wasn’t strictly legal I realised. But then neither was I. I didn’t think Florence would even notice.

  I dropped by Forensic Services to give Florence the lipstick kiss, and to ask her to add the resulting DNA to the database.

  ‘Will you run tests on this?’ I asked, casual as anything, showing her the lipstick imprint in its plastic bag.

  Florence immediately smelt a rat.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ she inquired, her eyebrows raised above her glasses.

  ‘Just a friend of mine,’ I said vaguely. ‘Someone left it on his desk at work. He wants to know which woman it is who fancies him. He’ll supply reference samples later.’

  Florence lowered her head. ‘You know we’re not supposed to do this sort of thing, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘You can truthfully say you know nothing about it,’ I said to her. ‘You’re just doing your job as instructed by your boss.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said. ‘If things ever get ugly.’

  She turned to the computer screen. ‘Those tests you started running last night,’ she said. ‘They’ll be ready in a couple of hours.’

  ‘When they are,’ I said, ‘please match them against the buccal swab we got from Marko Gavrilovic yesterday. And Sister Gertrude.’

  ‘Our triploid at 23?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Florence looked surprised . . . ‘But Jack, what’s the point in redoing them?’ she asked. ‘We didn’t get anything except an NR from the crime scene at the convent. Remember?’

  ‘I didn’t redo them. These come from a different source,’ I said. ‘Something removed from the crime scene.’

  ‘The magic crucifix?’

  ‘No. Something else.’

  ‘Jack, you’re not making sense.’

  ‘Florence,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’ I turned to go.

  ‘It’s not like you,’ she said, ‘to delegate. You must be easing up a bit.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m going to look for Henry,’ I said.

  Florence sniffed. ‘You know what I think about him,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you think I’m going out there?’ I asked.

  I drove out to Henry’s place. I was a little concerned about his absence, but pretty sure I’d find him sulking at home. He’d behaved like this once before, I remembered, when I’d first started working at Forensic Services. Florence’s suspicions were not to be brushed away, however, and Henry, like any of us, was a potential suspect, so I made sure I had everything I needed in the back of the van, cartridge respirator, suits, gloves and boots. These days, we had to be ready for anything.

  Henry lived in a cottage across the river from Seven Oaks and I rattled over the wooden bridge that was impassable during floods. At the start of the dirt road, thirteen four-gallon drums, the householders’ names painted on them, were fixed in a colourful row along the fence at the turn off the highway, where the mail was left for the outlying farms and cottages. Henry’s was the last one and I noticed a pile of mail lying uncollected. Something is wrong, every instinct told me as I drove slowly along the rutted road towards gates leading to Henry’s small century-old cottage. The gates over a rusting cattle grid stood wide open and I rattled up the overgrown driveway. In spring or summer, perhaps this place had a charm. But on this bleak winter day, all I could sense here was desolate loneliness. Wintering briar roses covered the wooden verandah rails and two ringbarked eucalypts had dropped dangerous boughs across the path to the steps. As I got out of the car, I noticed that the front door was ajar. The back of my neck felt very exposed and I swung around, half-expecting to find Henry creeping up behind me. But there was no one about, just a crow swooping near one of the dead trees.

  I turned my attention back to the house. Grimy lace curtains hung inside the closed windows. Nothing stirred in the silence. I didn’t like this one bit. I stood there, trying to discern what was lying halfway down the hall. But it was too small to be a body.

  There was no way I was going into that place without extreme caution, so I went round to the back of the vehicle and took out a Tyvek spacesuit, shivering in the cold air. The worst that could happen would be that I’d feel a fool if Henry suddenly appeared to find me lumbering down his hall in full regalia, but feeling like that was nothing new.

  A crow wailed from the top of one of the ringbarked gums as I geared up. I looked around for his mate. There are always two of them, but maybe out here, at Henry’s desolate cottage, even the crow was unmated. I took the little portable recorder I kept with me and stepped up onto the front verandah, stating the date and the time of day. There were no signs of forced entry and I could see clearly now that the lump halfway down the hallway was a hessian sack, half filled with wheat, some of which had scattered over the dusty floorboards.

  ‘Henry?’ I called out, stepping into the hall. I checked the room on my right—Henry’s bedroom from the look of it, untidy, bed unmade, bedding mostly on the floor. The room on the opposite side of the hall was the lounge where piles of newspapers
and magazines littered an old couch. The fireplace was dead and the house smelled of stale fire. I went further down the hallway and into the living area where plates and a half-empty wine glass stood on the small dining table. The kitchen was a mess, with dishes stacked in an old-fashioned ceramic sink that hadn’t been upgraded since Victoria was queen. I saw a couple of mouse traps with ancient cheese nibbled away near the old range and one washed wine glass stood upside down on the sideboard, alone among its stained companions. Maybe Henry only washed an article when he needed it.

  ‘Henry?’ I called again, moving to open the screen door to the smaller back verandah. But no one answered me. He’s not here, my instincts told me.

  Outside, about ten metres from the house and at the end of a path overgrown with winter grasses, stood Henry’s home lab, a solid construction, much sounder than the cottage I was in. Now my instincts were screaming a flashing, red alert. He was in there, I knew. And he was dead. I don’t know how I knew that, before I actually got to the door. It was locked. I went back into the house but couldn’t find a key. It took me a while to smash the door in. Then the stench hit me. I moved closer to look and heard the sound of the opportunistic flies and insects loud in the surrounding silences. And there he was, not far from the door, completely naked, one foot almost lying in the walk-through sterilising tray, covered in flies, huddled in a congealing puddle, stains around his lower body, his head thrown back in an extreme rigour, eye orbits, nostrils and mouth black with clustering insects, blackening fingers swollen with post-mortem lividity. I didn’t need to go any further.

  I stood there a moment. If I’d been a religious man, I might have said a prayer. But I felt an immense sadness for this lonely man and his lonely death. I wondered how he’d done it. I glanced around the shelves and sinks of his laboratory. Brown bottles and flasks held any number of toxic contents. Beside him lay a Tyvek spacesuit, in tatters, as if he’d ripped it off, and beyond that, the rest of his clothes. A full respirator lay on its side nearby next to a pair of used rubber gloves. What had happened here? For a moment, I even suspected some strange lonely auto-erotic practice gone horribly wrong.