by Sarah Bailey
The Robbie case happened by accident. It started as a run-of-the-mill car theft. The girlfriend of the owner reported it and I just happened to be walking through reception when she came in. Young and skinny, she had a voice that hit high notes every third beat as she recounted finding the car missing that morning, how she and her boyfriend heard nothing, how the thief must have known how to get the car started without keys, and how yes, they had insurance, which was lucky.
I listened to all of this with my back turned as I pretended to sort through papers on the bench. Immediately I just knew something was off. Why was this girl coming in to report her boyfriend’s missing car—‘He’s at work, you see, had to catch the bus!’—and how was it that her boyfriend was driving a brand-new Audi when her hair had the distinct tint of supermarket dye and she’d said that she waited tables at Woody’s for a job. Her boyfriend, Warren Robbie, was twenty-four and a brickie. Yes, he could come in tomorrow to report the theft if they really needed him to, but they’d figured the cops would want to know immediately. Surely they had a better chance of catching the guy that took the car if they started looking as soon as possible? Surely her statement would be all they really needed?
Dale Morton, the cop on the desk, scribbled down the information and explained that yes, Warren Robbie would need to come in to make a formal statement but that he, Morton, would put the report into the system straight away and see what turned up.
The girl looked deeply concerned at this, twisting her scrawny ponytail around her fingers.
‘Often these cars are found burned out in the bush somewhere within forty-eight hours,’ Morton explained. ‘Kids just mucking around and having fun. But with a car like that someone may actually want to keep it. Hard car to hide, mind you.’
The girl—Stacy Porter, I found out later—smiled at Morton encouragingly, looking up at him through her mascara-coated lashes.
‘How long you been with your boyfriend?’ he asked her.
‘Three years. Almost too long. You know what I mean?’ Her tinkling laugh chimed through the station but her movements were jerky. This was not a girl who relaxed very often, I surmised. She had the wary look of a beaten dog. ‘We’re really just like good friends now.’
‘Oh yes, I hear ya. Yep, uh-huh.’
A now uncharacteristically diligent Morton took down a few more details and then she left, a cloud of cheap perfume lingering in her wake.
I thought about Stacy and the alleged theft for the rest of the day. I knew in my gut that car wasn’t stolen, but that in itself was not so unusual; playing the insurance companies was almost a national pastime. It was the girl. I sensed Stacy’s brash front was hiding something far more sinister. I would have bet anything that her boyfriend assaulted her. The smattering of bruises that I’d clocked on her upper arms was a dead giveaway. Again, not so unusual. Unfortunately, over half our cases had an element of domestic abuse, but it seemed risky to send the girlfriend you abused to a cop station. What if she saw it as an opportunity to ask for help?
After Stacy left, I hit the road, dutifully completing my patrol shift at the local shopping centre, which was essentially an exercise in tolerance as I listened to Constable Toledo drone on about his in-laws for the best part of the afternoon. Rather than going home after, I headed back to the station to see what I could find out about Warren Robbie. Not much, it seemed. He’d left school just shy of his seventeenth birthday and got his driver’s licence the day he turned seventeen. He’d held down a job with the same bricklayer ever since and had applied for an ABN a year earlier. He split his time between the original employer and doing jobs for himself. Insurance on the Audi was taken out two months earlier. He’d purchased the car four months before that. In cash, from what I could tell. There were no records of a payment but nothing to suggest he’d have access to that much money either. Certainly his bricklaying salary hadn’t paid for the car.
Driving home later, I detoured past the house Robbie rented. A dark wooden cabin on the outskirts of Smithson, about five k’s from my place, it was set back from the road and surrounded by thick bush. A lonely outside light was on. I sat in the car for almost half an hour, watching the shadows moving through the house.
The next morning, I got in early and deliberately loitered near the front desk. At about eight, Warren Robbie came in. I knew it was him from the ID photos I’d seen the day before but his face was now half covered with a rangy beard and his hair was longer. His left eye was shaded by a large bruise and he wore a long-sleeved jumper despite the temperature outside already passing thirty degrees. Charming and personable, he went through the motions of reporting the theft, joking about having to catch the bus in this heat and politely wondering whether it was okay if he contacted the insurance agency to ‘get the ball rolling on that stuff’.
‘Pretty hot out to be wearing a jumper like that,’ I said from the back of the office.
He looked up, and in the harsh fluorescent light, I could see the soft shine of make-up that had been carefully applied to hide bruises that were clearly far worse than they had initially appeared.
Warren Robbie’s mouth pulled into a half-smile. His eyes glittered and, against my will, I found myself looking away. My body shifted into flight mode, my in-built radar deeming him unsafe.
‘Guess I’m not that hot yet. Got out of bed and came straight here.’
Morton looked back and forth between the two of us, irritated at my comment and seemingly unsure what to do next. ‘Anyway,’ he said, glaring at me, ‘thanks for coming in, Mr Robbie. I said to the girl—ah, Stacy—that the statement needs to come from you just ’cause all the paperwork is in your name, so if you can sign the stat dec we’ll be all set. Just your autograph here, please, and you can be on your way.’
Morton laughed awkwardly and Robbie acquiesced, smiling along. He sent a short glare in my direction before leaving.
‘Thanks, Dale, my man! Nice doing business with you.’
For a couple of days I pushed Robbie and his missing Audi out of my mind. I drove past the dark little house a few times but nothing seemed out of order. About a week after he came to the station a new blue ute appeared in the driveway. There was something about him that my body seemed to physically reject but I had court cases to prepare for, traffic hours to log, and I’d just moved in with Scott, which was taking some getting used to. I’d never shared a room with anyone before and I was surprised every morning to find Scott there. Him moving next to me. His breathing. I was pregnant at the time too, not that I knew it, and my body was responding as if it had been shot by a tranquilliser. But busy as I was, Warren Robbie lurked in my mind like a disease I couldn’t quite flush from my system. It wasn’t the insurance fraud keeping me up at night. It was the fear in Stacy Porter’s eyes when she’d realised that she would have to tell Robbie that he needed to come in himself. It was the quiet evil that I’d sensed in his own dark eyes.
And then, about two weeks later, on an especially hot night, I pulled over a ute with a broken tail-light just outside of Smithson. The windows were down and straight away I knew it was them. The long yellow tail of Stacy’s plait hung in parallel with the undone seatbelt. She’d been crying and one side of her face was red but I went through the motions of explaining the issue with the tail-light, writing out the ticket and checking Robbie’s licence. His presence was overpowering; I’d never felt so repulsed by another person. His anger burned through the air between us and I was unsure how to finish the exchange. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted something on him, something real. I wanted Robbie put away. Permanently. I hadn’t wanted anything so badly in a long time. I sensed that he was capable of something truly terrible.
After the tail-light incident I became obsessed. After two weeks of sleepless nights and post-shift drive-bys, I went to Jonesy and told him I had suspicions about Robbie.
‘Malc Robbie’s boy?’ said Jonesy.
‘I guess so. I think his dad used to own the petrol station?’
‘Sure did. He’s dead now. Got himself shot hunting with a mate a few years back, if you can believe it. Some mate. He’s got three sons, I think. Warren’s the youngest but I don’t remember any of them being trouble. A bit rough, perhaps, but hard workers. What’s got you going on him, Woodstock?’
‘Nothing specific, sir. I guess you’d call it a gut feeling.’ Jonesy opened his mouth and was, I’m certain, about to tell me just what he thought about gut feelings, so I hurried to add, ‘But I’m sure that a car he reported stolen was bogus and I think he beats his girlfriend. He had a black eye when he came in too. He’s trouble.’
Jonesy leaned back heavily in his chair and put his hands behind his head, studying me. I suspected that he thought he looked like a wise old detective, possibly the one from Batman, but really his stance just showed off the sweat patches under his arms.
‘Woodstock, you’re a good cop. You’ve impressed me so far. You’re making the guys on the floor nervous, which I like. I was just telling Lucy the other night that I think you’re a great kid.’ The last part was said gruffly and I felt an unexpected wetness surge in my eyes. ‘But I’ll tell you something for free. Feelings will get you nowhere. This game is all about facts. Get me some facts on the Robbie boy and I’ll be right there beside you nailing his arse for whatever he’s done, but make sure you focus on doing your day job. There’s nothing that some of the boys here would like more than you getting caught up in some wild-goose chase.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, feeling strangely sated.
‘Don’t give them the satisfaction, my girl, okay?’
‘No, sir, I won’t,’ I replied, meaning it.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, 13 December, 11.31 am
Smithson has the only real morgue in a hundred-kilometre radius. Lucky us, we get everything along the scale of death and destruction from around the region. ‘The Regional Death Capital’ as Anna is fond of saying. Felix and I don’t always go to the autopsies. Some detectives prefer not to; some claim it muddies their objectivity. Sometimes we take turns and sometimes we’re just too thin on the ground. Logistics are as common in death as they are in life. There is relentless scheduling and organising, slotting in the gory box-ticking around a bit of admin and the weekly pizza night. Felix and I have recently started to let the uniforms go when it’s appropriate and we just read the reports afterwards, or we have them give us the highlights—there’s not always enough death to go round and they need the experience—but there is no way I’m going to miss this one. Mentoring aside, I prefer to be present at autopsies when I can; it sort of feels like it’s the least I can do to pay my respects to the victim. I’ve never told anyone this, but when it is a child I always go. I have this thing about them being lonely and scared and needing some semblance of maternal comfort in that horrible, airless room. However, this is completely different from any post-mortem I’ve ever been involved in: I feel compelled to see Rosalind again before she is gone forever. I think about the clues lying in wait across her body and I feel an almost magnetic pull towards the suite we all call ‘the Last Chapter’.
After so many days in the stuffy heat of the police station, I thought I’d be grateful for the air-con, but it’s turned up too high and goosebumps break out on my arms. Felix and I are perched on the beaten-up sofa in the waiting room drinking takeaway coffees. The springs gave way some time in the late nineties and it’s not unlike sitting on a block of cement. I suppose this is not really a place where people need to get comfortable.
Felix looks at me and I can see tiny tan flecks in his dark green eyes. ‘You okay?’
Before I can answer, his phone is ringing and he shoots me an apologetic look as he stands up, pushing through the heavy door to step outside. Warm air swirls around me. ‘Hi, honey,’ I hear him say.
I wander over to the window and look out across the car park. The wind has picked up now and plastic bags are catching and flying in short bursts across the concrete before becoming tangled in bushes. I see Felix pacing back and forth as he talks into his mobile. I spot Anna’s car so I know she is here. I take a sip of coffee and almost vomit. I throw the almost full cup in the bin. I imagine the contents spewing out and circling around the rest of the rubbish, just like the dirty lake water had curled around Rosalind’s creamy skin. I shake the image away.
‘Hey, Gem!’ Anna’s voice is like a ray of sunshine in the sterile corridor.
She would have to be the girl least likely to slice dead bodies open for a living. On face value, she’s more a fifty-sit-ups-before-sunrise-and-tequila-shot-at-dusk type.
We don’t get too many murders out here, and they tend to be a result of domestic violence or alcohol fuelled tussles. Friends killing friends and husbands killing wives. The longer I am in this job, the more I realise that the lines between love and hate and life and death are blurry. More often than not it’s drug overdoses and suicides that have me standing next to Anna as she turns someone inside out.
Anna is extremely competent and widely regarded around the station as one of our best assets. She’s still young, only about three years older than I am. It’s a miracle that we haven’t lost her to the city yet. Jonesy used to think the same thing about me but believes I am less of a flight risk now that I have Ben. Phelps, the previous medical examiner, was a crude character but a brilliant ME. A real Hannibal Lecter type, classical music and all. We often joked at the station that it’s lucky his patients were dead or he wouldn’t have had any. Fortunately, Anna, his incredibly capable trainee, managed to inherit his skill but not his weirdness.
‘Hey, Anna,’ I reply, smiling through a grimace as I follow her down the hallway to the autopsy suite. The waves of pain are still way worse than I want to admit to myself.
Anna snaps the lights on. The room is cool and airless. ‘Ah, fuck it,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Left something in the office. Give me a sec.’ She walks out, leaving me alone with Rosalind. She is lying naked on the metal platform in the middle of the room. Aside from the angry marks around her neck and some slight bruising on her thighs, she is flawless. Her perfect breasts, larger than I had imagined, roll slightly to each side but still point skywards, fulfilling all manner of universal fantasies. Her veins are delicate webs underneath her skin. Her wrists and ankles are almost childlike. Her lashes are dark and fan prettily; little shadows spiking out beyond them. I had wondered what she looked like naked so many times. I never expected this to be the circumstance under which I would find out. I walk over and stand beside her. I look into her eyes and wonder what they saw in their final moments. I whisper things to her that I wouldn’t dare say to anyone breathing. Words tumble out and I’m left empty and drained from the sudden release of my secrets. The clock ticks loudly from the wall above my head.
‘Right, let’s do this.’ Anna barges back in, snapping on latex gloves.
I step away from Rosalind, my heart racing, skin on alert across my body. I clutch involuntarily at my gut and then quickly drop my hand.
Anna walks around and picks up Rosalind’s arm, shifting it away from the edge of the table.
‘Should we wait for the others?’ I ask.
‘I told them eleven forty-five. They’re late,’ Anna replies, pressing a button on her phone to record her analysis. ‘Deceased female. Rosalind Elizabeth Ryan. Twenty-eight years of age. Found Saturday, twelfth December at around seven-thirty am face down in Sonny Lake in Smithson, New South Wales. Suspected homicide. Trauma to the head and suspected strangulation.’ She looks at Rose’s waxy face. ‘No suspects at this time.’
Felix and Jonesy enter the room. I can feel the heat coming from Felix as he stands next to me. Anna flashes them a quick, businesslike smile.
‘And the guy who found her?’ asks Anna.
‘A local man on a morning jog,’ I say. ‘Connor Marsh. We’ve cleared him.’
‘Jeez. Just the thing to have you renewing your gym membership.’ Jonesy laughs at his own joke, wi
dening his stance and leaning heavily against the wall.
Felix’s hand scrapes softly against mine. A tingle pulses somewhere between my chest and throat.
‘Right, I’m going in.’ Anna puts on her mask, adjusts her gloves and circles her shoulders as if she’s about to throw a punch.
‘What a beauty,’ says Jonesy helpfully. ‘A bloody waste killing a girl like that.’
Anna tackles Rosalind’s wounds first, prodding into the ugly redness that is like a blooming flower on her left temple.
I stare at her until my eyes blur, until she becomes a mass of indistinguishable pixels. I think about transferring money into my savings account, my court appearance for a rape case in the new year, stopping to get petrol later, what I’m going to get Dad for his birthday. Anything to stop the piercing sound of Rosalind Ryan’s body being sawn open. Whatever air was trapped in there is forced out as her chest plate is cracked open. That’s the part that always gets me. It makes no sense but it’s like my brain reasons, Well, no one could survive that, so they really must be dead.
‘What’s with the roses that were all over her?’ asks Anna.
‘We think she was given them at the end of the play. She wrote and directed it. Maybe she still had them with her afterwards?’
Anna nods and keeps prodding Rose. ‘Kind of creepy that she was covered in flowers. Sort of like a real burial.’
I nod. Felix and I have talked about the flowers already, figuring they must mean something. An apology, perhaps? An attempt at a proper send-off?
I look at Rose, trying to ignore all the clinical markings and death tools. It is bizarre how death grabs at a body: claws at it, owns it. I must have attended at least fifty post-mortems by now. Each one sticks in my mind for a different reason. The most violent. The weirdest. The most straightforward. The youngest. I still vividly recall watching the autopsy of a three-year-old who had been killed by her stepfather. I held her hand as she lay on the table. Anna and I both cried.