Deadly Deeds (22 page)

After three minutes of sifting through hundreds of green files, I finally found Jeremy Wilson’s report. The white label on the manilla folder read 20 February, the day we found him dead.

Dr Charles W. Main wasted no time on that one. Normally twenty-four hours would elapse before an autopsy would be carried out. Exceptions were made when a homicide was involved.

I circled the room with my eyes, desperately seeking a photocopier.

Nothing but a large director’s desk, a swivel chair, a Medical Degree from the University of Melbourne, certificates of merits and commendation, hanging like war medals on the wall behind the desk, and a 486DX computer, outdated by at least three years.

No time to sneak into the other offices and risk getting caught.

I tucked the report between my jeans and the small of my back, concealing it with my leather jacket.

I let out a sigh of relief, knowing I was now in possession of what I’d been seeking.

Just as I was about to leave the office, I heard someone opening the door down the end of the hallway.

I froze, listening attentively for anything. Because the floor was covered in blue carpet, I couldn’t hear footsteps.

Louis was no longer screaming. They must have gagged him or dragged him outside the building.

I heard the door close.

Christ, don’t let it be Dr Main.

‘Who’s there?’ someone with a coarse, military voice shouted.

My pulse increased as I looked around the room for an alternative exit or a hiding place. But the office was small, and there was no where to go.

I stayed glued to the blue carpet, now truly believing I would be charged for trespassing and stealing government property, not to mention tampering with an investigation.

‘
Who’s there?’ the voice repeated with authority.

Someone knew I was here, but I was uncertain how they found out. I wondered if the security guards beat it out of Louis.

Or maybe someone spotted me on one of the security cameras I’d been too careless to notice.

I took a deep breath and walked out of Dr Charles W. Main’s office, my head high, radiating confidence.

Forcing a broad smile, I paced towards the stranger as if I knew my business in this establishment.

A security guard in blue uniform glared into my eyes.

I glanced at his name tag, which read Jason. His hair was parted in the middle, and he had a strong neck and wide shoulders. His face was red from either anger or excessive drinking. Either way, he didn’t look like the type of person anyone would want to mess with.

‘
Who are you, and what are you doing in Dr Main’s office?’ His tone suggested he was ready to pin me to the ground if I gave him the wrong answer.

‘
Jason,
I’m a doctor working for the VFSC. Dr Main asked me to get him an autopsy report.’

He scrutinized me up and down, as I realised I’d made a mistake wearing denim and leather.

              ‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a visitor’s pass?’

‘
I’ve got identification,’ I said, removing my VFSC ID.

‘
You should still be wearing a visitor’s pass. Why aren’t you wearing a pass?’

Nervous, I found no answer. I stepped forward, trying to get past him. I was losing my composure as fear wiped the smile off my face.

A strong hand grabbed my arm, blocking the circulation to my right hand.

‘
Hold on a sec.’ He spoke in his walky-talky, ‘Steve, do you copy?’

I took no time to think and kicked him hard in the shin with one of the fashionable leather, metal-caped safety shoes I bought on Chapel Street.

‘Ah, fuck!’ he muttered and lowered himself to the floor, loosening his grip on my arm. ‘You
bitch
!’

That’s what my husband called me when I told him I wanted to file for divorce more than a decade ago.

I ran as fast as I could, not looking back.

The Jeremy Wilson autopsy report was rubbing against my lower back, causing mild discomfort.

I placed my ID against the black panel at the end of the hallway, pulled the door open, and ran as fast as I could.

‘
Jesus, fuck!’ I heard him swear as I vanished down the end of the corridor.

I slowed down as I approached the front desk.

Not a soul in sight.

Looking across the glass door of the VIFM, I saw four security guards in blue uniform and a man in a suit surrounding Louis. I recognised the suit to be Dr Charles W. Main. We met once at an international conference on criminology at Monash University in Clayton. I’d spoken to him for only a few minutes, so I’d never had a chance to establish a personal opinion towards him. Come to think of it, I did recall that he was rather attractive, but right now it seemed irrelevant.

I crossed the empty reception area as fast as I could while maintaining a walking pace. I stepped out of the building, smiled at the security guards, who smiled back at me, and headed towards the Lancer.

‘
And what were you doing in the pathology room?’ one of the guards said to Louis.

‘
I told you I made a mistake. I got the wrong place. I thought this was the Blood Bank,’ Louis screamed back.

Clever, I thought, the Blood Bank was only a block away.

‘You stupid fag,’ another guard said. ‘Nobody’s gonna take blood from you. You probably got AIDS or some shit.’

Dr Charles W. Main broke in, ‘Hey, come on now, there’s no need to use that kind of language. The police will be here any minute.’

And sure enough, just as I slid behind the wheel of my car, a white police car raced down the street, siren screaming as if the world was coming to an end.

I hoped Louis was going to get out of this without much trouble. I could have gone back and tried to rescue him, but the police car was closing in towards the building.

If Jason, the security guard who bruised my right arm with his mortal grip, raised the alarm, I’d be getting a free ride in the police car.

I turned on the ignition, cracked the gears, and manoeuvred the car into a u-turn.

I owe you one, Louis

CHAPTER TWENTY

A
s soon as I got home, I removed the autopsy report from my jacket and threw it on the desk in my study.

I compared the DNA autoradiograph from Jeremy Wilson’s blood sample in the report with the one Dr Shubbert faxed me.

The polymorphic sequences from both autoradiographs were identical.

A perfect match.

The semen found in Teresa’s vagina never was Walter’s like everybody initially assumed, but her husband’s.

Teresa’s rape was a hoax.

I decided to read the entire autopsy report on Jeremy Wilson.

From first glance, I could see that the pathologist performed the medico-legal autopsy thoroughly.

After the body had been identified and toe-tagged, Dr Charles W. Main took two twenty-four exposure colour films of the body fully dressed and in the nude. The body was then measured, weighed and x-rayed. This was slightly awkward since the head of Jeremy Wilson was separated from his shoulders.

This was followed by fingerprinting.

External examination was carefully performed according to the information I had in front of me. Clothing was thoroughly examined, including any fibre samples and stains. Scars, wounds, tattoos, moles and other identifying markers were also recorded. Fingernails, hair and skin were also examined, and the skin of arms and legs were checked for needle marks.

Dr Charles W. Main then proceeded with the internal examination. He performed the obligatory body-length Y-incision, also known as the thoracic-abdominal incision because it began across the chest from shoulder to shoulder and down over the breasts, then changed into a midline incision along the abdomen and down the pubis.

The heart and lungs were exposed through cutting the ribs and cartilage, and a blood sample was taken from the heart after opening the pericardial sac to determine Jeremy Wilson’s blood type.

The upper organs were then removed, weighed and externally examined before being sliced up into sections for examination of internal structural damage. Fluid in the thoracic pleural cavity was removed for analysis. Microscopic slides for each organ were prepared for further testing.

Organ removal and examination was then carried out on the abdomen. Like the chest area, each separate organ was subject to visual and internal testing. The stomach’s content was measured and samples sent for toxicology.

And this was where I stopped going through the report.

Something caught my eye.

A handwritten note had been made on the margin next to the stomach’s content analysis. See toxicology report - high level of drug detected.

I flicked forward until I got to the toxicology results.

A high concentration of Valium had been found not only in the stomach’s content, but also in the blood sample taken from the heart of the victim.

I dropped the autopsy report on my desk, and placed the palms of my hands against my temples. Another layer had just been added to the Wilson’s case.

This crime had been so carefully premeditated that everyone had missed the obvious.

I looked out the window of my room and down to the street below. I hadn’t even noticed that it had been raining. A green tram stopped and one of my neighbours, a drunk on an invalid pension, stepped off without looking. He nearly got run over by a car trying to overtake the tram from the left-hand side.

I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of black coffee. Pain jabbed at the back of my neck, probably caffeine withdrawal symptoms.

I tried to make sense of everything I had read, and how it could fit with everything else I had discovered so far.

As I returned to my study and sat back behind my desk, I recalled how John Darcy had told me that Jeremy’s decapitation had been performed
methodically
. This had been established from the formation of the blood droplets around Jeremy’s body. And suddenly the answer as to why Jeremy never fought while getting his neck cut open became obvious. He had been so heavily sedated that he was still alive when she decapitated him.

I flicked back through the autopsy and found the section examining the quality of the cuts on Jeremy’s neck. Dr Charles W. Main observed that the cutting was a series of quite deliberate pressure cuts and not slashes, which fitted perfectly with John Darcy’s theory that Jeremy couldn’t have been hacked to death.

I then turned to my log book, and looked back at my entry from the 20th of February. I was looking for the serial number of the knife Frank had found in the back alley behind the Wilson’s apartment. I remembered clearly taking the number down when Frank presented the knife to me at the crime scene. This detail reminded me how vital it was for a forensic investigator to make careful notes of everything at the crime scene. Details, which sometimes seemed trivial at the time, often made the difference between making a substantial leap forward in an investigation or coming to a dead-end.

I copied the serial number of the knife, G-66923, along with its length, width and other details I had previously taken down, into a small spiral-bound notebook.

If I was going to prove she killed her husband, I needed to trace the knife back to its place of purchase.

Michael was home when Garry Wood came to dinner later that evening. I’d been busy with the Wilson investigation, and by 6.30 p.m., I panicked because I hadn’t begun to make dinner. I wondered why the hell I talked myself into this.

‘
So, who’s this guy?’ Michael asked, shifting from one foot to the other, while I was slicing a butter lettuce into a large glass bowl.

‘
Someone who works for the telephone company.’

‘
And what’s he coming over for?’

‘
Dinner.’

‘
Like a date kind-of-thing?’

‘
Yes, like a date kind-of-thing.’

He tried to make eye contact, but I avoided him. I’d never dated since my divorce, and having my son scrutinising me half an hour before my beau walked in was a rather uncomfortable and embarrassing situation.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Michael asked.

‘
No.’

‘
You’re saying that, but you’d rather if I left. What if you guys decided to bonk?’

An alarm rang in my head. Did I hear right. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I snapped, my eyes now digging right into his.

His face flushed and he said, ‘You know what I mean. Jesus, I’m not ten years old.’

‘
That’s not the point,’ I said, branding my knife up in the air. ‘I wish you’d have a little more respect and stop talking to me that way.’

‘
Oh, great,’ he said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Fine, whatever, preach whenever it suits you.’ And he left for his room.

I paced towards him, the knife in my hand. I stopped, walked back, placed the knife on the bench, and followed him to his room.

Before I got there, he slammed the door in my face.

‘
Michael!’ I screamed, ‘I’m not going to take any more of this shit!’

I sent the door flying open.

He was sitting on his bed in tears.

Surprised, I froze, unable to say a word. I muttered something which made no sense to me, nor to Michael.

‘What’s going on?’ I finally asked, as I knelt down close to him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Why are you crying?’

I’d never seen him crying before, not since he was half the size he was now.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he whispered between sobs.

‘
What is it that I don’t get?’

He kept his eyes to the floor.

I placed one hand under his chin and pushed his head up. ‘What is it that I don’t get, Michael? Tell me.’ His tears were dripping in the cup of my hand.

‘
You know.’

‘
No, I don’t know. If I knew, I’d try to do something about it. Did I do something to upset you?’

He paused and said, ‘You’re never here. It’s that stupid job of yours.’

My face creased. ‘I don’t have any choice, Michael. I have to support  the both of us.’

‘
Why can’t you get a normal job like normal people? What do I have to do to get your attention?’

He’d lost me. ‘You don’t have to get my attention, Michael. Why are you saying that?’

‘I took the money from the phone booths,’ he retorted in a firm tone of voice.

‘
You what?’ I was more shocked than angry.

‘
I took the money from the phone booths. I knew you were working with the telephone company. I thought that if I’d help you, we’d be spending more time together.’

My jaw dropped, but no words came out of it. I found it hard to believe what I was hearing. ‘You stole the money from the phone booths?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Then why did you show me the Jolly Roger website?’

‘
Because then you’d think I was really clever and want to work with me. Cause then you wouldn’t think it was me, anyway.’

I pulled my head back. ‘Jesus, Michael, I’ve been billing the phone company through the nose to find out who did it. And now you’re telling me it was you all along?’

‘I’m sorry.’

I felt a lump in my throat.

I didn’t know if I was more angry at him or at myself for letting our relationship deteriorate to such a degree that he thought he had to resort to crime to get us back together.

I placed one hand at the back of his neck and drew him closer.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be all right. We’ll work something out. Jesus, I wish you’d told me that earlier.’

He whimpered and said, ‘I love you, mum.’

Michael stayed in his room while I was having dinner with Garry Wood. Frankly, I’d rather he hadn’t come, but by the time I’d made up my mind, he was already at the door.

I knew I could never have a relationship with this man now. He worked for the telephone company my son had stolen from, which meant I’d never be completely honest with him.

He was dressed in shirt and tie. Thank God he’d got rid of the hair gel. For some reason, he looked better after hours than at work. In fact, he was goddamn sexy.

We talked shop over the dinner table.

After we had coffee, I said, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Garry, but I’m really tired, and I’d like to go to bed.’

‘Wow,’ he said, trying to cheer me up. ‘Sure, bed sounds fine to me. Lead the way.’

I smiled, half ready to take up his invitation, having waited so long for someone to hold me and make love to me. But instead I replied, ‘Not with you. Maybe some other time. I promise.’

‘Hey, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘Never kiss on the first date. My mother told me the same thing.’

The perfect answer.

I leaned over the table and said, ‘Well, mine didn’t.’

I kissed him red and hot, thought what the hell, and led him to my room.

On Tuesday morning I unsuccessfully looked up every knife shop in the Port Melbourne and St Kilda area.

The temperature was barely fourteen degrees when I left home, and it looked as if rain would follow soon. For the first time that year, I wore my winter clothes: calf length black laced-up leather boots, a beige woollen overcoat and a green scarf with matching gloves I’d bought down Acland Street two winters ago. I was extremely conscious of looking more like an Eskimo than a forensic investigator, but now that my chest cold was truly over, I wanted to avoid the risk of another one.

After lunch at McDonald’s, at the corner of Glenhuntly Road and Nepean Highway, I decided to try shopping centres.

Chadstone Shopping Centre was only twenty minutes away.

By 2.00 p.m., I’d located the seller of the cook’s knife used to sever Jeremy Wilson’s head from his body. Monique, the sales person at King of Knifes, a shop located on the first floor of the shopping centre, close to Angus & Robertson Booksellers and a Newspower newsagency, was extremely friendly and helpful.

She identified the knife through immaculately kept records.

This entire investigation was starting to look like a bad joke. The knife had been bought on the 12th of February by credit card, one week prior to Jeremy’s decapitation. Credit card number 9654 0901 0091 7290 was used to make the purchase. It was a VISA card in the name of Teresa V. Wilson and due to expire six months from now.

Of course, having bought the knife did not prove Teresa killed her husband. But with all the other circumstancial evidence I had accumulated so far, it wouldn’t take much to convince a jury that she did in fact commit the murder.