Fetish (7 page)

When Detective Flynn arrived, Makedde Vanderwall was sitting on the floor of the flat. She was in a miniskirt, her legs splayed slightly in a totally unselfconscious position. She was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, with a small jewellery box in her hands.

“Miss Vanderwall?” he asked tentatively.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of her name, and he noticed the dark, smudged make-up. She didn’t appear as untouchable as she had at the police station on Sunday. Sitting there in the ransacked flat, she looked vulnerable and lonely. He regretted treating her so flippantly. Maybe his partner Jimmy was right; his wife was making him an arsehole around women.

“Hi,” she said in a rough voice. “I’m sorry to have dragged you out of bed, but I wasn’t expecting all this when I got home. I guess I panicked.”

“No, no. You were right to call me. Tell me what happened.”

She explained the evening’s events in a resigned and dispirited tone.

“Have you noticed anything missing?”

“I couldn’t say at the moment.”

“You know, we can’t assume this is related to your friend’s death—”

“Murder.”

“What?”

“She didn’t just die, she was murdered.”

“Right. Well, we can’t assume the two are related. There are a lot of break-ins around here, especially in these older buildings.” He didn’t want her panicking any further. It was unlikely that the killer would come after her.

“Well, they didn’t take the television or anything. Then again, I would have left that heap of junk too.” She cracked a tight-lipped smile, then looked down at the ornate box in her lap.

He noticed that she was wearing a thick diamond ring on her thumb. He couldn’t remember seeing it at the station. “Nice ring,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

She eyed him suspiciously, and he had the odd feeling that she was evaluating him, deciding something. When she didn’t speak, he said, “I want to apologise if I was flippant with you on Sunday.”

She gave him a hard look. “Yes, you were flippant.”

She was so direct, he didn’t know what to say for a moment. “You look tired. Do you have somewhere else to stay the night?”

“No. I’ll stay here tonight. They wouldn’t return with cops crawling all over. They probably have what they want anyhow.” He raised an eyebrow at her. What did she think they had? “They were either burglars or souvenir hunters after a piece of Catherine.”

Flynn was a little surprised. She was probably right, but he hadn’t expected her to understand that.

“We could help you—”

“No, I don’t want your help,” she said suddenly. “I’ll stay here tonight.” She glanced at her watch. “Or rather, I’ll stay here the rest of this morning. I was planning on getting up in less than four hours anyway.”

“Well, we’ll send someone over to speak to you tomorrow. We might need to dust again.”

“I doubt they would have left prints.”

Andy looked at her curiously. She was reacting strangely. Did she know something? “Why is that, Miss Vanderwall?”

“The place is obviously coated in powder. Anyone with half a brain would wear gloves. You don’t have to be a detective to figure that out.”

“You’re assuming this person has brains.” He turned and started towards the door. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

She surprised him by saying, “Have a good sleep.”

“You too,” he replied, and he meant it. He was slightly unnerved by her fortitude. Or was she simply being stubborn because of how he’d treated her?

Whatever the case, it was already past 3.30 a.m. and it was time to leave the girl in peace.

Detective Flynn arrived at the office the next morning to find a huge, sixteen-by-twenty photograph of Makedde Vanderwall, dressed in nothing but a brief aqua-blue bikini, pinned to the bulletin board. Someone had circled her breasts and drawn nipples in bright red felt pen. Andy stopped and stared at it through puffy eyes. He heard restrained chortling behind him.

“Well, that’s…” he was at a loss for words, “that’s art.” He admired the unbridled display of immaturity for another moment, and then began untacking it.

“No, no.” Jimmy got up and walked towards him. “She stays.”

Jimmy Cassimatis was Andy’s partner of four years. He was also a friend. The “Stiletto Murders”, as the case had now been dubbed, was one of the biggest either of them had worked on in their careers. With three murders so far, Jimmy’s delinquent sense of humour was a welcome respite from the pressure. He was known for doing the most appalling things at the morgue, so doodling on photographs was nothing.

Andy Flynn was more serious about his career in the police force. He was more ambitious. He had been raised in the safe suburbs of Parkes, where
residents possessed only the most abstract concept of crime. The main concern on his block was kids nicking your tricycle if you left it on your front lawn. Like most of the public, it didn’t occur to anyone that there could be a killer next door, or a paedophile teaching at the primary school.

The local cops may not have been under pressure to control any soaring crime problem, but Andy sure noticed the small town appreciation. There was a pretty girl who worked in the corner deli, and she always had the biggest smile for Sergeant Morris. All the kids wanted to catch a glimpse of his gun, and his uniform commanded respect. By then, the police already appealed, but it wasn’t until a sensational case in 1974, however, that Andy’s dream of joining the police force really took form. Three men were murdered and Scottish-born Archie “Mad Dog” McCafferty was brought to trial. He claimed that the voice of his dead six-week-old son had told him to kill seven men so that he could live again. People were fascinated and repelled by the case, and all that interest wasn’t lost on eleven-year-old Andy. It seemed to him that the cops and the killers were playing at a different level. There was so much at stake, and such importance placed on their actions. He wanted to be part of it. He joined as soon as he graduated from school, and eventually found his way to the city, where the real action was.

“I hope you weren’t planning on entertaining yourself with that for long,” Flynn warned, with one finger poking at Makedde’s navel. “Because the real thing will be walking in here at some point, and I’m quite sure she’d castrate me on the spot if she saw that.”

“Ah, ya pousti! Don’t ya like girls?” Jimmy laughed, blocking Andy’s half-hearted attempts to take the photo down.

“She had quite a night with that B and E.”

“Tell her next time, she can call
me
in the middle of the night. I’ll help her out.” He winked. “Actually, Angie would have lost it. Especially if she knew it was that model.”

She would have. Angie Cassimatis was a bit touchy about that sort of thing, but then, she had reason to be. Jimmy was no Brad Pitt, far from it, but he had still managed to get it on with a young constable in the not-so-distant past. It had filtered through the grapevine and Angie found out from a friend of a friend, who just happened to be the cousin of the girl he was having the affair with. It was like a game of telephone gone wrong. Big trouble. They smashed plates at their wedding, but Andy could bet that a helluva lot more was broken when Angie had found out. The young lady in question was somehow transferred to Melbourne after that, and Jimmy arrived at work with a mysterious bruise on his cheek the size of Angie’s hand.

Jimmy read his thoughts. “Skata! Once, OK? Once. Are you saying you’re some fucking saint? Cause I know you’re not.”

“No I’m not. Let’s drop the subject. Just promise me you’ll take the photo down before the wrong person sees it.”

Jimmy didn’t answer him, but a mischievous smirk flickered across his lips.

“Where’d you get it anyway?”

“The film confiscated from the photo shoot.”

Andy shook his head.

“I’ve just been to forensics,” Jimmy began, getting back to business. “They’re satisfied we’ve got the same killer in all three cases. No copycats. So maybe we’re finally gonna get somewhere with Kelley.”

Detective Inspector Kelley had rejected their request for more backup, even after Catherine, the third victim, was discovered. Luckily, all three fell into their jurisdiction, so the connection between the crimes was made early. Once a pattern was established, the added resources could be more easily rationalised. Inquiries were still being made in search of similar offences in other states, but so far, nothing conclusive had come up.

“Same hammer type. Plus, as you said, same signature. We all agree, at least unofficially, that we’ve got some serial psycho on our hands,” Jimmy said.

Andy nodded and paused.
A serial psycho.
All the DNA evidence in the world wouldn’t help if the killer was random, as signature killers often were. He had to hope there was some relationship between the girls, some common link.

“Roxanne Sherman; eighteen, prostitute. Cristelle Crawford; twenty-one, prostitute and stripper.” Andy looked at the victims’ photos as he spoke, and their eyes stared back at him in a silent communication that he could not decipher.

“What were they like?” he said to no one in particular. “Aggressive? Passive? What turned him on?”

Andy had the habit of talking to himself from time to time, and it was a bit of a joke around Homicide. He supposed it had started with sleeptalking and an active imagination as a kid, but in brain storming sessions like these, when major crimes needed to be solved, he found that verbalising his mental gymnastics worked well. Sometimes a detective would take him to task on a theory he wasn’t even aware he’d said aloud.

“Attractive,” he mumbled under his breath, still staring at their images. Pretty, smiling photos of each girl contrasted with their gory crime scenes—photographs of blood and mutilation. Decomposition. Wasted flesh. Wasted lives.

“Some would have wanted to take them under their wing, but our guy wanted to violate them.” He
thought about that. The victims were practically kids. Kids in heavy make-up. He spoke aloud as much for his own benefit as that of his partner. “The ages and professions are all similar. Late teens-early twenties. Then he goes for an overseas model. Does this blow your hooker-hater theory out of the water?”

“We haven’t found the clothes, apart from the shoes,” Jimmy replied. “The model one could’ve been dressed sexy and he thought she was for sale. She rejects him, and
whammo
,” Jimmy slammed his thick palms together to illustrate one of his favourite words, “the malaka grabs her.”

Andy considered the scenario. “He gets her alone without anyone seeing anything suspicious. The other two might have gone somewhere with him willingly if they thought he was a legitimate John, but not this one. Plus, she was young and healthy. If she put up a fight someone might have seen or heard something. She had no defensive wounds, only the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. So it appears he got her into those binds without much trouble. Maybe we’re looking for someone in a position of trust.” He reached for a steaming cup of black coffee; his second of the morning. “Or a charming Bundy type. Did Colin find anyone at the dump site?”

“Ah, just a few residents, people walking their dogs, nothing unusual.”

He was disappointed. They had hoped the killer would return to the site to relive the murder.

“Let’s say they’re strangers,” Jimmy suggested. “What makes him choose
them
over all the other birds walking around?”

“The shoes?”

“Lots of ’em wear heels,” Jimmy pointed out.

“Contact the model agency and find out if Catherine frequented any nightclubs, bars, anything like that. Maybe he spotted the girls in a common area, followed them home, waited for the right moment. Maybe he hunts in a certain patch and Catherine walked down the wrong street.”

“My guess is the Cross. That’s where The Space is.”

“Possible.”

Jimmy scribbled in his notebook, then looked to Andy, his face unusually serious. “Do you think there are more?”

“The violence has escalated, the mutilation has escalated, and there doesn’t seem to be a pattern for the dates that he kills. He could be on a spree, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s killed before but he covered his tracks better. There are more than a few missing persons that fit his victim type.”

“He won’t stop.”

Andy nodded his head in sad agreement. “Not unless we catch him first.”

Makedde shifted on the bed. Not in it, but
on
it. She hadn’t slipped between the sheets, and she hadn’t slept a wink. Since the cops left hours earlier, she had sat on top of the bedclothes, practically motionless, fully-dressed, and unable, or unwilling, to rest.

She’s dead.

It seemed at that moment that there wasn’t a single safe place in the world. Not a fortress, not a room, not a corner, not one single square inch of security.

If it isn’t a killer, it’s a disease. Your own body killing itself off. Eating itself up.

Perhaps that was why she didn’t feel the urge to go home, or move. What would it change? The world would still be the same, wherever she was. She had decided not to tell her father about the break-in. He would be worried enough as it was. Like the cops said, it was unrelated. An unfortunate coincidence. Just another attempt by the world to rip her away from her carefully preserved sanity.

I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to freak out.

She realised that sitting for hours on the bed, staring into the dark room had perhaps been a bit self-indulgent. Then she snapped out of it. It was morning, the sun was up, and she should run. She would get her blood pumping and deal with it. She would deal with it like she had everything else. There was no choice.

It was a beautiful, still morning on Bondi Beach, and Makedde ran hard, cutting a determined and cathartic swath through the serenity. Her legs churned up the pavement beneath her, faster and faster as if she could somehow escape the world crumbling around her. She felt as though she’d lost everyone; everyone except her father. Her privacy had been invaded. She wasn’t sure about what to do, or what to think, but she knew she didn’t want to run away.

No obvious forced entry.

That fact rattled her. It seemed odd, but the cops assured her that it would be fairly easy to break in cleanly. They said the locks were cheap. But why would anyone break in and not take anything? It just didn’t make sense, unless it was someone hunting for souvenirs. Some weirdo who was willing to go to great lengths to get a piece of Catherine. Crisp, salt air filled her lungs as she ran the last leg of her rapid circuit from Bondi to Bronte, and a stunning view rewarded her efforts as she came up over Mark’s Park. Despite her lack of sleep, her body responded well to
her commands. Running was like a meditation; a chance to think, and at least try and piece together life’s little mysteries.

She was sure the dipsomaniacal photographer Tony Thomas was hiding something when they talked at The Space. She wondered whether the kind of man who murdered and mutilated young women was also the kind who blatantly displayed his fetishes in public. In fiction, Tony wouldn’t have been the prime suspect to a seasoned reader; he was too obvious. But in real life, criminals were not always so clever. Whether it was lack of intelligence, or lack of discipline, they often left the proverbial bloody trail to their own front door. She would have to consider Tony very dangerous.

And what about Detective Flynn? On Sunday she could have wrung his neck, but now he didn’t seem to be quite such an arsehole. How much would Flynn be willing to divulge about the progress of the investigation?

Makedde advanced swiftly past the Bondi Icebergs swimming club and cut left across Campbell Parade. On this Tuesday morning traffic was slow, and the brisk winter day attracted only a handful of hard-core surfers to the beach. She slowed down to a fast walk on the footpath, stretching her arms in big whooping circles. It felt good to sweat out her frustration—and her fear. She let herself into the block of flats, leaping up the stairs
two by two until she reached the front door. A wildly flashing answering machine greeted her as she entered.

“Oooh,” she breathed, “somebody loves me.”

She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and pressed the “messages” button, then walked in lazy circles to cool off. The first message consisted only of a series of nondescript noises and the sound of a receiver hanging up. A beep declared message number two, which sounded the same. This repeated itself several times until she finally found a voice on the recording.

“Makedde, this is Charles.
Weekly News
magazine have been trying to reach you for an exclusive interview. If you’re interested, call Rebecca on her mobile…”

Poor Catherine is still selling magazines
, she thought sadly. The machine clicked to the next message.

“Makedde Vanderwall? This is Tony Thomas.”

Oh no.

“Hey,” the message went on, “I’m sorry about last night. I get a bit stupid when I have a few drinks…”

How did he get this number?

He sounded just as relentless when sober. “Could we meet for lunch today? Please? I know you’re not working.”

“Thanks Charles,” Makedde said, fuming.

“We’ve got to talk. I insist. I’ll be around at 1.30 p.m.”

What?!

Maddeningly, the message ended without him leaving a phone number so she could tell him off. Makedde was furious. How dare her agency give out her number and let Tony know where she was staying! She yanked her running shoes off and hurled them across the room. The phone started to ring, and by the time she picked it up she was practically foaming at the mouth.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you can’t just invite yourself over to…” she trailed off as doubt crept into her mind. The caller was silent on the other end. “Uh, to whom am I speaking?” she asked with a hint of cautious embarrassment.

“This is Detective Flynn.”

Now she was really embarrassed.

“I was expecting someone else.”

“I sure hope so,” he said with a laugh. “I’m just calling to thank you for coming in with the information about the affair. I also wanted to see if you’re OK after last night.”

To what do I owe this back flip?
“Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Tired but fine. Any news?”

“No. No news.”

He sounded a bit too friendly, and he didn’t seem like the social type. She took a wild guess. “You’re about to tell me something I won’t like,” she said.

“Well, we aren’t dusting again. We figure it was a standard break-in. There’s been a rash of them lately.”

“Uh huh.”

“And we’d like you to come in for a set of elimination prints.”

“No great surprise. So what you’re telling me is that the priority has shifted and any possibility that the break-in may be related to Catherine’s death is not going to be explored at all. Brilliant. My confidence is growing daily.”

“It’s highly unlikely that the break-in is related. There’s not much we can do, and considering that you didn’t lose any valuables…” He changed the subject. “Can you come in to be printed today? I’ll be here until quite late.”

“Yes. I can make it in the late afternoon.”

“Great. I’ll be here. Thanks again—”

“So,” she quickly interjected, “you confiscated the film from Tony Thomas’ camera?”

“Yes,” he answered cautiously.

“Anything unusual on the film?”

“I can’t discuss the details of the investigation, Miss Vanderwall.”

Makedde rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m a model. I’ve got to work with this guy. If he’s a sicko, I want to know about it. Besides, you owe me one. Quid pro quo, Detective.”

There was a long pause, then he said with a touch of mirth, “A Thomas Harris fan, I see. Only, I’m hardly Hannibal Lecter. I can only pass on what I am
permitted to, and I don’t require your darkest secrets in exchange. There is a certain protocol.”

“Well, thanks,” she said sarcastically. “Anyway, I’m off to a photo shoot now. Shooting some lingerie with Tony Thomas…” She waited for a response.

The line was silent, then in a near whisper he said, “He took photographs of the body before the police arrived.”

Makedde’s jaw dropped. “My God.”

“We’re doing all we can,” Andy continued, clearly deciding that he’d said too much. “That’s all I can tell you.” It sounded like a pre-recorded statement. She knew she was getting to him, just a little bit, and she wasn’t willing to let go.

“I just want to know that this guy will be stopped. If he’s killed like this twice before, he’ll do it again.”

She heard a barely audible sigh.

“Don’t believe everything you read. We don’t know anything for sure at this point.”

“Bullshit. You
know
he’s done this before,” she challenged angrily, “probably more than twice. It takes years to build up to that sort of mutilation. Clearly this is a signature case. Guys like this don’t just stop; they perfect their MO and find new ways to get off.”

“It’s possible—” he paused. “What sort of books do you read in your spare time, anyway?”

She ignored his query. “Catherine was a friend. I saw what was done to her. I won’t feel safe until
you
find this guy.” The line was silent. She had hit her mark.

Andy’s voice was slow and resolute. “We’ll do everything we can.”

She wanted to believe him.