Deadly Deeds (9 page)

The university ran the Diploma of Applied Science in Forensic Science for the first time in June 1996. The first course of its kind offered to the general public anywhere in Australia. As a result, most of us weren’t really sure what we were doing, or how effective and useful the course was going to be.

To be there at 2:30 p.m. every Wednesday, when I had a non-scheduled week, was extremely difficult. I could be called up any time to help solve a homicide and as a result would have to miss a class. This was cruel to my devoted students, but when caught in limbo, I could only play the cards I was dealt.

What was fascinating was the variety of people who were interested in forensic science. Some of our students included lawyers, medical doctors, a writer, and some people straight out of secondary college, half of them X-Files fanatics.

A few travelled hundreds of kilometers a week to attend the course. One of my students, a young woman by the name of Stacey, even moved all the way from New Zealand because no similar courses were available back home.

Most students would never work in forensics on completion of the course. Forensic investigation was a competitive field, and unless they were employed in a related field by the end of the first year of study, they would be excluded from the second year.

The information presented at these lectures, especially in the second year, where students could specialise in crime scene investigation or fingerprint techniques, contained extremely confidential material.

The AFP didn’t want the course material to be distributed freely to the general public. Everyone who would be accepted in the second year of the course would have to undergo a police check.

A big bureaucratic problem tangled up the system. Too many egos floated around the AFP headquarters in Canberra. Once again, some big fat cats were protecting their positions by restricting information to the general public. After all, if everyone knew what they knew, there’d be no need to pay them exorbitant salaries, an office the size of Buckhingham Palace, and titles to match their egos.

I was half-hearted about the way the program was being conducted. I hadn’t made up my mind if it was indeed a good idea to exclude people from the second year. As far as I was concerned, you could never tell who had the potential to make an outstanding forensic investigator. But I had the entire AFP going against my beliefs, and since I was only a consultant and not an employee, there was little I could say on the matter.

Still, I had discussed a vague idea of protest against the selection criteria with my students. I thought of using discrimination as the basis of that protest. Most students were keen to do the second year as means to gain valuable employment. I knew the whole thing would probably fall back on my head, and at the worst scenario, the AFP would terminate access to the first year of the course to everyone who wasn’t a sworn member. I had to do some careful research before I made things worse than they were. Those people in Canberra had more power than the average citizens could ever imagine.

When I arrived at St Patrick’s Hospital at 10.02 a.m., the sky was overcast, and I could have sworn it was the coldest day we had had this February. For a moment, I regretted not having taken a jacket with me. The white cotton dress and navy cardigan I was wearing seemed clearly out-of-season. But in Melbourne, everything was out-of-season within twenty-four hours.

I parked in a space reserved for doctors and emergency staff only.

I went straight to Teresa Wilson’s ward on the third floor.

The hospital smell didn’t sit too well in my stomach in the morning. A faint nausea jolted my insides. And all those faces looking so miserable. And not just the patients. Nurses and doctors looked as if they required medical attention as well.

I couldn’t figure out why in the world people would willingly spend all their lives in a hospital. I knew I could have never been a doctor or a nurse. My work might have been morbid, but with dead people, you knew it was over. When someone was injured and required medical attention, they proportionally caused themselves and everyone around them a great deal of stress. Not that I wished every patient in the hospital would die suddenly so that the rest of the world would be relieved from the burden of worrying.

I couldn’t recall exactly where Teresa’s room was, so I asked a nurse. She told me I was still on the second floor. I had to go up one floor and turn left into the West Wing.

You can imagine my surprise when I walked in Teresa’s room and saw Frank sitting on the edge of her bed, holding Teresa’s hand. My attention immediately shifted to twelve red roses elegantly arranged in a crystal-like vase on her side table. My body tensed up as I recalled roses were for lovers.

‘
What are you doing here?’ I asked Frank when we made eye contact. He looked haggled and defeated. My tone of voice must have been accusing because he stared for a few seconds, as if I had just said a foul word.

‘
I just wanted to see how she was doing,’ he whispered. Teresa was fully awake, and no one else was in the room, so I didn’t know why he didn’t speak out loud.

I wasn’t sure if I was being paranoid, because it was normal for us to visit victims even after their ordeal was over. It helped them, but also helped us to cope with our post-traumatic stage.

And yet, we were both there at the same time, wondering what the hell the other was doing here.

I didn’t notice straight away, but when I shifted my gaze in Teresa’s direction, I was astounded to see how attractive she was. The bruising on her face had eased considerably, and her natural features were slowly coming back.

Teresa’s blond hair had been washed, and I noticed for the first time that her eyes were emerald green. A child-like innocence painted an expression of tenderness on her face. Her cheekbones were high and her nose straight and narrow. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever come across, in spite of her scratches and bruises.

The three of us made small talk, Frank and I obviously avoiding the subject of Jeremy by fear of not knowing if Teresa was ready to face reality.

I can’t remember how the conversation turned that way, but suddenly Teresa was telling us why she thought Walter Dunn attacked them.

‘
He made a pass at me a while ago,’ she muttered as she recalled the incident. ‘But he didn’t give up straight away. When Jeremy was away on business, Walter came and visited me.’

‘
Why didn’t you tell him not to come?’ I asked.

‘
I did, but there’s only so much you can do when it’s your husband’s best friend.’

‘
Did you tell Jeremy?’

‘
No way. He wouldn’t have believed me, anyway. Whenever he went away for a few days, he always told me to call Walter if I needed anything. Like it was his best friend. And even if he did believe me, God, I couldn’t put him through this. Imagine, finding out that you’re best friend’s got his hands all over your wife. He wouldn’t have believed me.’

I wondered what was the point of having a husband if he didn’t believe you. If I ever married again, my husband would have to be my best friend and confident, or else I’d begin a serious relationship with a Teddy bear. I made the mistake once to marry someone for the sake of marrying, and regretted it ever since.

I moved closer to the bed.

Teresa went on, ‘He tried to fondle me a few times, and I had to fight him off.’

‘Did he hit you?’ Frank asked, shifting uncomfortably on his corner of the bed.

‘
No, no. When I told him to stop, he stopped.’

‘
How did it end?’ I asked.

‘
Surprisingly well. He stopped coming, and I thought, God, he finally faced the fact that I wasn’t interested.’

‘
Did he continue to see Jeremy?’

‘
Oh, yes. He still came to dinner now and then. But we never talked about his advances, not even when the two of us were left together for a few minutes. He just gave me those long, lustful stares filled with hate and bitterness. He couldn’t handle rejection. And I knew it would mean trouble one day, but I’d never expected
that
.’

‘
And why do you think he attacked you?’

‘
I guess he wanted me so badly, and he knew it wouldn’t happen, so he went for it anyway.’

‘
Yeah, but why all the beating?’

‘
Some kind of punishment. You know, it’s not like I was submissive. He had to knock me around quite a bit before he raped me. And the squash ball, well, I guess that was his way of saying, “up yours bitch.”’

I nodded, thinking her theory was as good as any, but surprised by her choice of words.

‘And why do you think he killed Jeremy?’

‘
Jealousy, of course. Not only he couldn’t have me, but Jeremy was starting to make some serious money with his work, while Walter just didn’t have it in him.’

We chatted for a while longer, but she was beginning to repeat herself, and I had to make my way to Swinburne University for my lecture.

I ended up leaving Frank and Teresa by themselves.

For some reason I felt like the odd one out. Neither of them said anything about not wanting me there, but there was an uneasiness lurking in the air. My mind was filled with confusion and stress from the events of the past week.

But as I left the hospital, a small detail nagged me. I pictured in my mind’s eye Teresa alone in that hospital room and her husband dead.

And then Frank holding her hand.

It just seemed so sudden.

So calculated.

Thoughts crossed my mind.

Silly thoughts.

Thoughts which made no sense.

For a while I thought Frank might have had something to do with the death of Jeremy.

But as I slid inside my car, I realised I was being completely out of character.

CHAPTER SEVEN

W
hen I finished lecturing my class of Introductory Crime Scene Investigation at Swinburne University of Technology, the temperature had suddenly risen to the mid-twenties. I drove the Lancer with the sunroof open, letting the wind blow in my auburn hair, a change from my natural black hair.

Somehow, I did manage to give a worthwhile lecture in crime-scene contamination. Students seemed satisfied with what they’d been taught, and that was all which really mattered to me.

The traffic on Glenferrie Road was hectic, and other drivers seemed to be driving worse than usual. Maybe it was me who was becoming impatient with the world.

I got to my apartment forty-five minutes later. The red light on my answering machine flashed three times, indicating that there were three messages. Two were from Tim Simons, my
Herald-Sun
media contact, asking me to call back, and one from Frank.

I played Frank’s message twice.

Hey, it’s me. Just thought I’d call to see how you’re doing. You didn’t look too good this morning. Is anything wrong? You can call me if you want...oh, and by the way, I need you on Friday at 10 a.m. The director wants to talk to both of us regarding the other night. I did my best with the report, but we both knew he was going to raise questions. I just need you there for formalities. I’ll do my best to get us off the hook. Just make sure you’re there on time if I don’t hear from you. The last thing we need right now is to make a bad impression.

The answering machine beeped twice at the end of the message.

I showered and wondered if I felt anything for Frank. If not, then why had I felt so odd that morning at the hospital? Jealousy? I tried to brush the thought aside, knowing there was no way I could fall in love with Frank Moore. He wasn’t my type. On the other hand, I didn’t know what my type was any more.

As I stepped out of the shower, I recalled I hadn’t gone out with anyone for five years. This realisation frightened me. I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life alone. And yet, I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life with someone.

I married in 1982 to a young man I met at university while doing a Bachelor of Applied Science in Biology. I was twenty-one then and rushed from one thing to another. I wanted everything. A career, a family, a home and a life of my own. I was naive and thought I could change the world. It took me six years, a pregnancy and a divorce to understand that the world couldn’t be changed. I had to change. I had to decide what I wanted from life.

After my divorce, I held a grudge against men for a few years. It seemed they had it easy. Their lives reeked with career opportunities. But I had to either chose a career or become a wife again, somebody’s right hand. And since I had already been somebody’s right hand for six years without much success, I decided a career was the way to go. But with Michael around, it had been rather difficult. He’d been shuffled from baby-sitter to baby-sitter since the divorce, and now I only had myself to blame if he was slowly turning away from me.

But that was eleven years ago, and now I doubted if I’d made the right decision. As the years went by, I felt increasingly lonely. If not deeply involved in a homicidal investigation, I spent a lot of time reading fiction and non-fiction alike.

For hours, sometimes days, I sat on the balcony of my apartment, overlooking St Kilda and the Port Phillip Bay, and wasted too much time drowning in my loneliness.

Now and then, I thought of placing an ad in
Single Life
magazine, but I felt uncomfortable with the idea. What man would want a self-righteous, assertive woman like me? And now that Michael was twelve years old, I also had to consider him. Bringing a new person into the family was a decision we both had to make. Michael would have to get on reasonably well with his new father. I’d be miserable if they were on each other’s backs all the time. And anyway, I held this long-held belief that it was only desperate people who advertised for a relationship. Of course, deep down I knew this was untrue, and only an excuse for me to back out of any emotional commitment.

I had a friend a few years back who placed an ad in
Single Life
. She was a model, but also a single mother. She ended up marrying a psychiatrist who replied to the advertisement. The last time I saw them, she was pregnant with his child, and they were the happiest couple I had seen. She took a gamble and it paid of.

But I hated gambling because I never believed in chance.

I decided to wait for the right moment and the right person instead.

Maybe I would have to wait forever. Most people considered me ill-tempered, making it difficult for me to find a compatible partner. My childhood had been verbally and physically abusive, and because of it, I learned to become extremely defensive, to the point of coming across as arrogant.

With all these thoughts running through my head, I wondered if I was happy. But my mind had been in such turmoil during the last few days, I couldn’t trust my own logic.

Michael came home at around 8.00 p.m. I tried my best to be nice to him, but I could sense that he knew I was up to something. I made him dinner, but he decided to eat it in his bedroom. When I requested that he has dinner with me, he asked me what was wrong. I gave up and let him get on with his life.

When I went to bed later that night, I stayed awake for hours. Flashes of Jeremy Wilson’s decapitation kept coming to mind.

And then I thought about Teresa.

When I finally went to sleep, I woke up in a frenzy only minutes later. I had a nightmare in which I was Teresa. Walter Dunn came towards me, beating me with his hands, entering me savagely and finally inserting a squash ball up my anus. The pain was so terrible that when I woke up, I rubbed my backside thinking the dream had been reality.

Only the next morning I realised how badly I was dealing with the situation. Maybe I needed some counselling. But I was scared that if the VFSC and the CIB found out, they would find me inadequate to be contracted for their investigations.

Finally, over a cup of black coffee, scanning the headlines of the
Herald-Sun
and the
Age
,
I concluded a holiday might be the answer. I hadn’t had a real holiday for as long as I could remember. All my life had centred around my career. And although I was happy to have gone that far, I felt the need for some kind of break. I needed to stop for a while, reassess my priorities, figure out what I really wanted to do for the rest of my life. I needed to put it all behind for a while.

At 9.32 a.m., I stepped into my car and decided to see Teresa one more time, just to get the load off my mind and help me to cope with reality.

When I arrived in Teresa’s room at St Patrick’s Hospital on Thursday morning, she looked healthier than the previous day. She even smiled. I was amazed at the speed of her recovery. The way she had been battered and raped, one would have thought she’d be staying in hospital for months.

‘I’m surprised you came back,’ she said, her lovely emerald green eyes sparkling as if she was glad to see me.

‘
I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’

‘
Why?’ she asked, looking genuinely intrigued.

For a couple of seconds, I wondered what lie I was going to come up with. And then I decided the truth was as good as anything. The investigation was over, and there was no need for me to be one-dimensional. I felt a need to let my feelings show, to just be myself.

Slightly anxious, I locked my eyes into hers and said, ‘To be honest with you, I don’t think I’m coping with this too well. But don’t go and tell Frank Moore, or it could be the end of my career.’ I knew Frank would say nothing, but I abhorred gossip, especially if it landed on the wrong set of ears.

‘
He wouldn’t tell anyone even if I’d told him. I don’t think he’s that way inclined.’

I was surprised at her confidence in Frank. After all, she’d only known him for a few days.

Then I noticed a bunch of red roses on her side table. I knew they were not the same ones that I’d seen the other day, because there were much more of them, and the others would have been dead by now.

‘
These are from friends, I gather?’ I asked, pointing at the roses and feeling heat on my cheeks.

She glanced at the roses, looked at me suspiciously and said quietly, ‘They’re from Frank, actually. He came to visit this morning.’

I remained speechless for fifteen seconds. Goddamn it, maybe I hadn’t imagined things the previous day, after all.

‘
Are you all right?’ Teresa asked, a concerned look crossing her face. ‘You seem drained. Would you like a glass of water or something?’

I held on to the edge of the bed. ‘It’s stuffy in here,’ I lied, trying hard not to display the confusion which was boiling in my mind. Quickly, I changed conversation. ‘So what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a set designer.’

‘
Really? What does that involve?’

‘
I design sets for theatres and plays. I was working at the National Theatre when the incident happened.’

‘
That’s just down from where I live.’

‘
Well, there you go. Maybe we’ve even crossed each other in the street and didn’t even know.’

We laughed lightly at the coincidence.

‘So,’ she muttered, ‘what’s going to happen from now on?’

I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, with the investigation.’

‘
Oh, that. It’s finished, of course. Well, almost. Just have to tie up a few ends. Paper work mostly.’

A concerned look crossed her face.

‘Anything wrong?’ I added.

‘
No, not at all. I just didn’t expect everything to be all over so soon. It’s just happened so fast.’

I smiled. ‘Neither did I. It’s better that way, I guess.’ I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. ‘You’re a very brave woman, Teresa. I don’t know if I could have survived what you’ve just gone through.’ And I meant it.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered as tears came rolling down her cheeks.

I didn’t know why I was being emotional about the whole thing. But seeing her there, putting on such a brave face after having lost her husband, being raped, and having her beautiful face scarred made me shiver.

As I held on to her hand, I wondered if my empathy was just an excuse because I was desperate for friendship. And Teresa was here at the right time, and looked as if she needed friendship as well. Was it so wrong?

I moved forward and kissed her on the forehead, wishing I could help her overcome the suffering she was going through. I wanted to hug her, but didn’t want her to think it was more than friendship, although I was myself confused as to what I really was after.

Her tears brought tears to my eyes, and we ended up crying and laughing at the same time, like two teenagers sharing some forbidden secret friendship.

By the time I left the hospital, I felt much closer to Teresa. I would have loved to see her again, but I didn’t think the timing nor the occasion was appropriate

And this thing with Frank was troubling me. I hoped he wasn’t flirting with her. Really, it was probably none of my business, but it would look bad on his record. Well, at least that was the excuse I made to myself to rationalise my jealousy.

I stopped at McDonald’s for lunch, and within half an hour I wished I didn’t. Junk food caused an uneasiness in my stomach, but I was hungry and had to eat immediately.

I spent the rest of the day getting mentally prepared for the next morning’s meeting at the VFSC and wondering how I was going to track down the phone booth coin stealer. I hoped nobody was going to give me the third-degree at the VFSC because I was unprepared. Right now I felt extremely vulnerable, and it would have taken little to send me over the edge.

In the evening I went to the Astor Theatre, just a block from where I lived,  for a double-feature - ‘The Brady Bunch Movie’ and ‘A Very Brady Sequel’, both very forgetful.

I fell asleep at 1.10 a.m. on Friday over one of Garry Disher’s Wyatt novels.

Frank and I were sitting on the other side of the mahogany desk, in Trevor Mitchell’s office at the VFSC.

I glanced at the piles of paper work neatly stacked in the IN and OUT trays on top of the desk. My eyes circled the room and caught a framed, black and white photograph of a group of men lined up next to each other, all in business suits, smiling as if they’d just graduated from university. I recognised a younger Frank Moore, when he had more hair and no moustache. Trevor Mitchell was next to him, also looking a few years younger. I couldn’t identify the rest of the men.

I’d been in Trevor Mitchell’s office before, but I never noticed the photograph. My guess was that it had been put there recently.