Deadly Deeds (19 page)

For a person to be found guilty of a criminal offence, the law required that the prosecution proved the matters alleged beyond reasonable doubt. If enough evidence was brought forward by Teresa’s defense lawyer, the case would fall apart.

So far, I had accumulated enough circumstantial evidence, that is evidence which comprised details which pointed to the key fact proving a crime was committed.

At best I could prove Teresa Wilson lied. This could be backed-up by medical expert evidence regarding the injuries found on her body.

However, I had no direct evidence indicating she killed anyone.

And that was a stinker of a problem.

My best chance was to get it out of her through a confession. To do so, I needed to be very tactful and diligent in my investigation.

I knew if I handed everything over to the police, they would arrest her immediately and botch up the investigation. Like myself, they would only be able to prove she’d self-inflicted her injuries, but would not be able to pin her with the murder of her husband and Walter Dunn.

I blow-dried my hair and stepped out of the bathroom in my bathrobe.

I crossed the hallway to the kitchen. While water was boiling, I scooped a spoon of instant coffee in a mug.

What I needed was an evidential glut, enough to have every intelligent lawyer refusing to even try mounting a proper defense. At this stage, the chance of losing my contract with the VFSC seemed completely irrelevant. I was going to nail the bitch even if it cost me my career. I had a deeper respect for the truth than for a job title.

And if Teresa did kill those two men, I also had a personal vendetta against her for humiliating me with her lies.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in my study with my mug of black coffee in one hand. I removed a copy of the original report from the crime scene of the morning of the 20th of February at the Wilson’s place and looked for the name of the neighbour who called the police when he heard Teresa screaming.

Lionel Payne was a seventy-three year-old pensioner who had moved into the same block of units as the Wilsons two years prior.

I dressed in my Levis, a clean white tee and a wool sports jacket.

Within twenty minutes I was in Port Melbourne.

Like many people of his age, Lionel Payne was at home, looking out the window of his second-floor apartment, waiting for time to pass, for a friend to drop by, for family to visit, for his time to come.

I could tell he was glad to see me by the over-zealous smile on his face.

He had short, grey hair with a matching beard and seemed quite underweight for his height. His dark brown eyes sat deep inside his skull. A fine mist covered them, as if he was still looking in the past and was incapable of accepting reality. I could read thousands of stories in them, most of which he had lived through before I was even born. Lonely, old people scared me because I knew one day I would become one of them.

His five-dollar, K-Mart, chequered flannel shirt hung loosely on his body frame.

I sat at his kitchen table while he made coffee for two from an old aluminium saucepan. I was certain I would start convulsing if someone suddenly cut out my caffeine intake. More of the stuff ran through my veins than blood.

Two pigeons were making a nuisance of themselves on the window’s ledge, which was covered in droppings. Because the window could only be pushed open from the inside, and we were on the second floor, it was impossible to wash the dropping infested glass panel. I had to drink my coffee while glancing through bird shit.

Disgusted, I circled the room with my eyes.

Three flying, ceramic ducks, the type I had seen thousands of times in other people’s homes, in Copperart catalogues and in television commercials, hung on the opposite wall. Last I heard, these were worth a small fortune and sold as antiques.

It always amazed me how much rubbish from the sixties and seventies had suddenly become antiques or collector’s items, and were sold for ten times the price they were originally bought for. It made me want to keep every tin, book, magazine, container, nail, overworn clothes and teddy bear, and pack-seal them until the year 2050. If I had been unwise with my savings, I’d be able to pay the mortgage off by selling collector’s items in mint condition at the Sunday market.

The table I was sitting at was made of a pink, Formica-like surface, with metal legs, and a collection of stains from the last forty years.

An aroma of sweetness and recent cooking filled my nostrils.

I asked Lionel what he did all day.

His eyes lit up as he elaborated on his life.

Lionel Payne was the caretaker in the building. He swept the staircase, arranged the rubbish bins for collection, and mowed the grass around the building. His other duties included minor plumbing repairs, changing burnt-out globes in the hallway, and maintaining harmony between neighbours.

‘
That was a terrible thing that happened next door,’ he said, while opening a white tin of International Roast with the back of a spoon. ‘How do you have yours?’

‘
Straight black. No sugar, no milk. Yes, it was quite horrific.’

He nodded as if he approved but was still shocked by the whole incident.

I wondered for a brief moment if anyone had offered counselling to the old man. ‘How well did you know the Wilsons?’ I asked as he poured water into two stained mugs.

‘
They kept to themselves. Well, sort of in a way. I never got to speak to them because they were so busy all the time. Busy bees, they were. In and out as if the world was about to end. I’m home most of the time, so I can see what’s going on around me. And you could never keep up with them. Irregular hours. A crazy couple like all those young people out there. You never now whether they’re coming or going. Too much violence on television. It’s this world we live in. You watch the news, and you see all the violence. No wonder our children get affected. No respect for anyone. We never had crimes like that when I was young.’

Oh, yes, you did, I thought, but you never read about them.

‘Is there anything you can tell me about the Wilsons?’ I asked.

‘
Sure. They used to fight all the time. Terrible screams, throwing things at each other. Since they moved in, there wasn’t a week that went past without her screaming her head off. She was a pretty girl, come to think of it. I’m sure I once heard her threaten to cut his thing off.’

‘
His what?’

‘
His
thing
, you know.’ He blinked down where his zip was so I knew what he meant.

I smiled as he placed the two stained mugs of coffee on the table and went on, ‘Of course, that’s all talk. I mean, how many of us have made threats during our lifetime and never carried them out?’

I nodded as I took one sip from my mug, wondering if I was going to catch a disease. The coffee was too strong, but at least it would keep me on my toes.

I found it interesting that the Wilsons had been having violent arguments for so long.

‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’

‘
I’m no snoop. Don’t go around listening to other people’s conversations. But I did hear them fighting over who could park the car in the garage.’

‘
They both have a car?’

‘
Oh, yes. She drives a Mercedez Benz, an older model, black, two doors, don’t know the name. I was never really good with cars. Don’t have a driver’s license. Don’t want one. What for? I don’t go anywhere. He drives a BMW or a Volvo, one of those expensive cars, you know, yuppie cars. Yellow, I think it is. Yeah, that’s right, just like a lemon.’

I swallowed half the content of my mug and said, ‘Where’s their garage?’

‘Down the back. You mean you didn’t know?’

I said no with my head.

He went on, ‘I can show you if you want. I mean it’s really none of my business, but... You’re a cop or something, aren’t you?’

‘
I work with the Victorian Forensic Science Centre. A bit like a cop,’ I lied. I was a consultant and not a sworn member of the police.

‘
Okay, then, I’ll show you around.’ He grabbed a chocolate-brown cardigan from the back of his chair and keys from the kitchen bench. ‘Just follow me.’

I gulped the rest of my coffee in one go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
s soon as Lionel Payne opened the up-and-over Wilson’s garage door, I recognised the smell. Being the caretaker, he had a key to every door in the building, which made my job easy. I didn’t have to get the lockpicking kit from the car and play burglar in broad daylight.

‘
I think you better wait out here,’ I ordered the old man.

He pursed his lips and played with his beard, obviously disappointed he would miss out on all the action. Then, ignoring my demand, he stepped forward.

‘And I’m not kidding,’ I added matter-of-factly.

He tucked his hands in the pocket of his brown slacks and glared at me coldly. I tried to avoid imagining what was running through his mind.

I entered the garage while he remained by the door.

A yellow BMW was parked right in the middle of the garage. The duco was shining like a polished fifty-cent piece. Jeremy Wilson loved that car once. He had had the final word on who was going to park their car in the garage. Was that why she killed him? For something as trivial as who would occupy the garage space?

Against the right wall was a workbench and a large variety of tools in good condition. A grinding and cut-off wheel, a unit drill, several types of cables and leads, and a cordless weed trimmer.

I glanced at the far end of the garage. I spotted garden tools, including a hay fork, a cottage fork, two lawn racks and a trowel, neatly lined up against a wall, ready for some kind of military inspection.

Reluctantly, I moved closer to the bench where the smell was strongest.

‘
Anything in there?’ I heard the old man yell out. ‘Do you need some help?’

‘
No, thanks. Just stay where you are.’

He muttered foul language to himself.

Moving in.

Perspiration dripped down the small of my back.

I circled the car and noticed the black garbage bag at the end of the work bench. The stench was unbearable, but I knew that if I stayed another minute, my olfactory nerves would go numb, and I would no longer be able to smell the odour. If I went out in the fresh air, and came back in again, I would have to start all over.

I whined as I took in a deep breath, feeling a warm, unpleasant sensation in my tummy.

I made my hands into fists, not looking forward to having to open the bag. If I found what I knew I would find, I’d be restless for many nights to come. I was tough, but still human.

I had to be careful with fingerprints or any other forms of contamination. The last thing I wanted was to leave my body blueprint behind and have someone drag me in a court for breaking a law I wasn’t aware of.

At this stage I was undecided on what to do if the content of the black garbage bag was in fact the body of Claire Kendall. I’d seen so much horror in the last month, my mind was becoming desensitised. But I knew one night I would wake up, shaking all over, throwing up my dinner, taking in what I’d experienced months, sometimes years ago. Like many crime-scene investigators, who were exposed to so much horror over the years, I was a walking, psychological time-bomb.

On television they showed you these cops who poked at bodies, faced crime after crime, got beaten to a pulp, and yet, by the next episode, recovered as if they’d begun the life of a Born Again Christian.

But in reality, humans were far more sensitive. Television never showed the weeks of numbness, sitting at home, knees clutched to the chest, suicidal thoughts drifting in and out of one’s mind, the urgency of wanting to call Lifeline, just in case you lose the strength to carry on for one more day. Were we born to take so much violence in our daily lives? How much longer would it take before all the minds in the world would give up and lay to rest?

I removed a pair of Ansell disposable surgical gloves from my sports jacket and slipped them on. I must have looked like a dental technician who was about to perform backyard surgery.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Get a grip on yourself.

Reluctantly, but in a professional manner, I closed in on the black garbage bag.

I kept telling myself this was only part of the job, nothing more, nothing less.

Unwillingly, I undid the white plastic nylon strap that was keeping the bag secure.

The pungent odour coming from the inside of the bag was a mixture of rotten meat, urine, and methane-like-gases, all mixed into one. Not a single word could describe the horrible smell.

I pulled my head back and creased my brow.

The mug of black coffee I swallowed ten minutes ago felt like a hot iron in my stomach.

The odour filled my lungs as I wiped my forehead with the back of my sleeve.

Inside the bag was the body of a woman dressed in what was once a short floral dress. She was badly decomposed, and it was impossible to identify her by looking at her face. It had been heavily eaten by insects and maggots, and was now covered in blisters and puss.

I pushed her head back as something unusual caught my attention.

Her eyes had been pierced with yellow corn-cob skewers, and her mouth was packed with cotton wool.

Grey clouds hovered over Melbourne on Wednesday the 12th of March.

At 8.34 a.m., I was sitting at the kitchen table of my apartment, a mug of black coffee by my side. Michael had already left for school. While sipping my coffee, I scrutinized polaroids of Claire Kendall I’d taken the previous day.

I had never seen anything like it in my life. Claire hadn’t just been killed, but mutilated. This was more than a crime of passion. I smelled revenge and hatred coming from a dark and murky corner of someone’s soul.

The mutilation of the eyes with corn-cob skewers told me the killer might have felt remorseful, as if he hated the thought of Claire watching him even when she was dead.               And the cotton wool packed in her mouth could mean one of two things. He suffocated her, or he wanted her to remain quiet about his identity, even after he killed her.

I was having trouble picturing Teresa Wilson being the killer, and that was probably why I imagined the killer to be male
.
But at this stage, evidence pointed to her, even though my instinct told me it was far more complicated than that. I hated to dismiss the idea that someone else was involved in these murders.

I had to plan my next move carefully.

I took another sip from my mug, feeling a sharp pain at the back of my cranium. I’d been sleepless most of the night, kept awake by the ghost of Claire Kendall.

When I left the Wilson’s garage the previous day, I ordered Lionel Payne to lock up and call the police. No one had to know I found the body.
Just tell them you smelled something, so you went to check it out.
He agreed without knowing why, probably because he thought it exciting to be a participant in one of this state’s most horrific stream of homicides.

I got home almost hysterical, looking over my shoulder, checking that the door and all the windows of my apartment were properly locked.

I was surprised Frank never called me when the police found Clare Kendall’s body. Surely, he would have seen it since the
Herald-Sun
took delight in running the story on the front page of this morning’s edition. For a while, I feared he might be dead as well.

For the next few days, I decided to lay low. I feared anyone connecting me with the finding of Claire Kendall’s body. I also had to get over my post-traumatic stage if I wanted to think clearly. But unfortunately, time was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I was thinking of seeing a counsellor after all, just to help me get over this difficult moment. I’d pay cash and would refuse to give the counsellor my name. I had a name and number with me from a friend who had been happy with the treatment she’d received. His name was Dr Malina Freemann, and he was  a qualified clinical psychiatrist.

Straight after lunch, I went to see my contact at the telephone company, Mr Trevor Wood. He listened while curling one end of his dark moustache around his forefinger. He was reasonably good looking, broad shoulders, a straight nose and strong chin, but a bit too nerdy for my taste. Maybe it was the way he insisted on parting his dark hair to one side with a truckload of gel.

We were sitting in his partitioned office, listening to everybody else’s bit of conversation,  while I explained my plan on how to catch the coin thief.

He loved the idea, and said he would get some technicians to work on it straight away.

‘
Who do I give this to?’ I said, waving my invoice in front of his face. ‘I was going to post it, but since I came by, I thought I might as well drop it in.’

‘
I’ll take care of it,’ he said, a broad smile on his face, as if he was doing me a huge favour.

I stood from my chair and shook his hand firmly.

He seemed to be checking out my fingers.

‘
Dr Malina,’ he finally said. ‘You wouldn’t be free by any chance?’

I gave him an inquisitive stare.

The colour on his face changed to deep red. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he added. ‘It’s just that, you know, you’re quite attractive. Maybe dinner next week.’

I thought about it for two seconds and said, ‘Okay, give me a call.’

He had a great body, and I could always talk him out of the hair gel.

Late afternoon, I called in at Frank’s home. My mind was all over the place. I knew I would never be able to see the light of day if Frank got killed.

I pulled into his driveway and hoped to God she was away. It would have been easier to ring first from my mobile, but I was scared she would answer the call. The worst would have been if he told her everything I told him.

He lived in Richmond, in a Victorian terrace, one of those long, narrow houses built at the beginning of the century. Its selling price was at least three times more than a house five times its size in an outer Melbourne suburb like Sunshine or Noble Park.

I rang the door bell and waited half a minute, staring at the dark green coat of paint on the front door. My stomach churned as I wondered who was going to answer it.

Footsteps came down the hallway.

Crisis time.

My hands were shaking, as I anticipated the worst.

Through the yellow, glass panel to my right, I recognised Frank’s silhouette. A great sense of relief enveloped me when he pulled the door open.

‘Malina,’ he said, sounding almost apologetic, ‘I was meant to call you. I’ve been flat out.’ He didn’t look as worn-out as I had expected. I noticed his freshly-trimmed moustache. He wore sand-coloured Haggar pants with a blue, oversized Country Road shirt. She’d already changed the way he dressed, and as much as I hated to admit it, it was a definite improvement. An aftershave I failed to recognised whisked past me.

I glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘Is she in?’

He opened the door fully to invite me in. ‘She’s at the hospital for a check-up. I’m not expecting her until seven.’

I checked my watch: 5.02 p.m.

Plenty of time.

I followed him into the narrow, dark  hallway, wondering why he was being so friendly and courteous.

‘Have you heard?’ I asked.

‘
Of course I’ve heard. Doesn’t mean anything.’

I was staring at the back of his neck when he said that.

We went straight to the kitchen, where Frank filled two glasses with ice and water, not asking if I wanted one.

Dishes were piled up in the sink. The
Age
newspaper was wide open on the table, and an odour of dampness circled the room. Cleaning was obviously not one of their favourite pass times.

He sat at the wooden table opposite me with both drinks. He pushed one glass in my direction.

I tried to make eye contact, but he kept his head lowered, stirring the ice cubes in his glass with his forefinger. ‘I’m sorry, Malina,’ he finally muttered, tilting his head forward, ‘but I don’t know how to handle this.’

I was unsure what he was getting at. ‘What’s wrong? You need to tell me something?’

He looked up. His eyes were red as if he was about to cry. ‘I was called up at work yesterday. The Deputy Commissioner of Police was there with two detectives from the CIB, and they started probing and asking questions. This was straight after they found the body of Claire Kendall. They wanted some answers. We talked for a while, and a decision had to be made. They gave me no choice.’

I felt nauseous. ‘What Frank? You had no choice about what?’

‘Your contract with the VFSC and the CIB has been terminated as of yesterday.’

I felt a lump in my throat. His words cut through my mind like a giant circular saw. ‘Jesus, what did you tell them?’