Fetish (9 page)

Detective Flynn braced himself. He had seen Wednesday’s paper, and instinctively knew his boss wouldn’t be happy. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and strode into the office, carrying under one arm the files he had stayed up all night with, and under the other the offending morning paper. He was met at his desk by his eager partner, performing his worst female-secretary impression with dead pan humour.

“Detective Inspector Roderick Kelley wishes to see you in his office, sir,” Jimmy crooned.

“Has he talked to you already?”

“Oh, yeah. Actually, it’s surprisingly good news.”

Andy unconsciously straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair as he made his way to Kelley’s office.

The door was open. Kelley was waiting.

“Flynn,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Come in.”

Detective Inspector Kelley was a lean, grey-haired man in his early fifties. He had slate-grey eyes, thin
lips and an angular, clean-shaven face. He was tough and economical in everything he did and said, and he was very intelligent. Andy respected him enormously. The morning newspaper sat open on his desk. It was facing away from Andy, but even upside down it was easy to read the bold headline.

SYDNEY SERIAL KILLER, POLICE CLUELESS.

“What do you make of this?” Kelley challenged as Andy took the hot seat.

He paused, searching for the right words. “Well, Sir, we tried to keep a lid on it, but someone picked it up and ran with it, which is not surprising. We’ve been getting a lot of calls, none of them useful.”

“And
do
we have a serial killer on our hands?”

“I believe we do.”

“Tell me about it.”

“These are clear, almost textbook, signature killings with distinct patterns of mutilation. Unfortunately, no connection has been found between the victims at this point. Just general age, appearance, that sort of thing. He’s not leaving a lot of clues. Just the shoes.”

“He’s leaving clues, Flynn. They always do. It’s just a matter of finding and interpreting them.”

He knew Kelley was unhappy with him when he called him “Flynn”. “Of course—” Andy began.

“And the shoe is the victim’s in each case?”

“Cristelle was seen leaving the Red Fox wearing similar shoes. With Roxanne and Catherine, we don’t know.”

“What else have you got?”

“Head wounds inflicted with a heavy blunt instrument, probably your average garden variety hammer. Thousands bought in Sydney.”

“And…”

“The other injuries took time. A doctor or a surgeon might cut in that way, but then again, any sicko might as well. We’ve learnt that since the Whitechapel days.”

“I’m listening,” Kelley pressed.

“No one unusual at the dump site of the Gerber girl,” Andy continued his spiel. “He doesn’t seem to have come back. I’m still suspicious of the photographer. He seemed more affected by us wanting to see the film in his camera than he was by having just come across a slaughtered girl. He had worked with Makedde Vanderwall before and may have set her up to discover her friend. The ultimate thrill.”

“Does he have an alibi?”

“No.”

“And this mystery man the last victim was involved with?”

Andy hated being confronted with questions for which he had no satisfactory answers. “Could be
anyone at this point. They kept it pretty quiet, and nobody has come forward. I doubt it’s related.”

“Physical evidence?”

“Nothing pointing to a specific suspect at this time. The killer uses condoms. No semen has been found at all, which I find unusual with this amount of violence. Our killer could be worried about disease or, more likely, leaving DNA. The traces of disinfectant found on the bodies fits with that.”

“So he could be familiar with forensics. Someone who’s done time. Or maybe he’s just a clean freak. What else?”

“On all the victims we found dark fibres consistent with a thick material like a blanket, not carpet fibre.”

Kelley stared out his window. “A material used to transport or hide the body?” he asked.

“That’s what I suspect. A few hairs were found in the wounds as well,” Andy said.

“The killer’s?”

“Miss Gerber was dead for at least thirty-six hours before she was found, and it was windy, so a lot of fibres and hairs appear to have blown over from somewhere else. We’ve got a few hairs, all vastly different. Long blonde, long brown, short brown, red, curly, you name it. They’re working on DNA tests. There’s a theory that some of the hairs belong to the previous victims.”

Inspector Kelley was silent. He turned his back to Andy and stared out the window. The Inspector unconsciously picked at his fingernails while his hands were clasped behind him. The skin around the cuticles was raw; the result of a nervous habit. A small clock ticked on the Inspector’s desk.

Finally Kelley spoke. “Now that we can assume we’re dealing with a multiple killer, I’m giving you more backup. You’ll head a small task force. I’m giving you Hunt, Reed, Mahoney, Sampson, Hoosier, and you’ve got Bradford full-time now along with the rest of your crew. You won’t have much difficulty authorising what you need from now on. The media is scaring the daylights out of every citizen in this city. If there’s a serial killer out there, I want him stopped.”

Andy was impressed, Kelley was usually a tight-arse.

“Thank you sir. But um…about Hoosier—”

Inspector Kelley cut him off. “You get who I assign to you.” Subject closed. He stood and walked back to his well-earned window. Andy knew he had put in a lot of years to get that precious view. Without turning around Kelley said, “Get busy. Oh, and take that pin-up off the board. It’s distracting.”

“Yes, sir…” He paused. “Wait…it’s up again?”

Andy assembled his team. It felt good to have the freedom to properly handle the investigation. Budget cuts had made everyone’s job increasingly difficult over recent years. Unfair though it was, if the victims had been the daughters of politicians, instead of two hookers and a foreigner, money would have been falling out of the sky from day one.

He kept the usual group on their research duties, and said, “Constables Hunt, Mahoney, Reed and Sampson; you’re on surveillance of the photographer. Groups of two. Twelve-hour shifts. We don’t have enough for a search warrant but we’ll sure as hell watch this guy. I don’t want Tony Thomas leaving your sight.”

Andy turned to Jimmy. “Keep Colin Bradford on the dump site. You never know who might turn up.”

“I’ll talk to our men in the Cross,” Jimmy offered, talking over the chatter as the room dispersed. “If this malaka is hunting the area, maybe somebody has seen something, heard something.”

“Good idea. And check the personals for ads asking for girls to model shoes.”

Jimmy paused for a moment. “The model doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go for something like that.”

“I know. But she could be the exception. Maybe he’s got himself a nice little system, but she was a victim of opportunity. There are no set rules here.”

“Y’asou. I’ll get on to it,” Jimmy assured him.

Andy was surprised when a small voice spoke up from the back of the room. “Uh, what about me, sir?”

It was Hoosier again.

“Ask Colin if you can do anything useful,” Andy said offhandedly, brushing off the junior officer like a summer blowfly.

“What do you mean you didn’t find it?!” JT exclaimed with thinly-veiled panic.

Luther’s expression did not change. In his usual deep monotone he said simply, “No ring.”

Luther was built like a gnarled and immovable two-hundred-year-old tree stump. His chest rose above JT’s eyes, and his head towered above everyone else’s, planted stiffly atop wide shoulders on a knotted, muscular neck. Lank hair fell over his eyes, but disappeared with a close shave from his temples to the back of his head. His leathery, pockmarked skin read like a road map, and his small eyes languished motionlessly in their sockets. Thankfully, JT had only ever had to meet him in person once. Luther was supposedly the best, but JT would have much preferred an arm’s-length, rather than face-to-face, business relationship.

“You drag me all the way out to this crappy bar to tell me news like this?” JT continued, trying to make his point as firmly as possible. “I don’t want bad news. That’s not what I pay you for.”

Luther had no response.

The dimly-lit bar was a forgotten dive, an alcoholic’s refuge with faded red-patterned carpets that reeked of hops, hardship and cigarette smoke. JT looked around furtively, his nose pinched against the distasteful smell. A neon beer advertisement flickered on the back wall. This certainly wasn’t the type of place he usually frequented and was a far cry from his Macquarie Street club.

The bartender offered him peanuts, but although he was starving, JT couldn’t bear the thought of eating from a bowl that patrons at this kind of establishment would have put their hands in. He imagined salmonella or hepatitis A festering over every nut. He wiped his hands on his pants again, hoping he wouldn’t pick up some heinous and unseemly disease from the door handle or stool.

“Look Luther,” he said resolutely, “I want the ring, and I want the girl out of the picture. Do I need to pay more?”

“You want ’er whacked?” Luther watched him expectantly, one huge, callused finger making an odd caressing motion against his scarred palm. JT suspected Luther would take great pleasure in executing that particular errand.

“I don’t need you to do that. Just put the pressure on and scare her out of town.”

Luther nodded.

“I don’t like meeting in person like this. Keep me posted as you have been. Only call from public phones, right?”

“Of course.” Luther stared at JT from his towering perspective. “The money?” he asked.

JT fumbled in his pockets. He was reluctant to hand over such a large investment for such a small return. “There’ll be more on completion,” he said gruffly.

Luther took the envelope, shoved it down the back of his dark jeans, skulled the remainder of his beer and walked out without another word.

Makedde tip-toed from the bathroom still dripping from the shower, and began humming along to the familiar tune playing on the radio. She tried hard to ignore the remains of the dark dusting powder that covered most of the surfaces in the flat. Her sunset run had been exhilarating, leaving her rejuvenated and she felt that she was finally being released from the heavy burden of grief. Clean, wet feet squeaked on the floor as she broke into a spontaneous bit of dance. Mak wasn’t about to let fear and misfortune get the better of her. She needed to release her tension, turn up the volume and escape.

Makedde whipped the towel off and struck an exaggerated rock star pose. After a moment grinning in her birthday suit, she felt an inkling of self-consciousness, and started towards the wardrobe. She kept humming along. The beat was uplifting, and eventually the last chorus was sung, and a radio host reminded her she was listening to Triple J. “
And in today’s news
,” the host continued, “
more public panic that a serial killer may be loose in Sydney
…”

She turned and quickly strode back across the room towards the radio. The floor was wet, and in an instant she had slipped. She landed with a thud on the unforgiving floorboards, her legs splayed out, a tangle of wet hair strewn across her face.

The DJ went on, “
The latest victim, nineteen-year-old Canadian model Catherine Gerber
…”

Makedde lay bruised on the floor, the smile wiped from her face.
Catherine
. There was no escaping the constant reminders. Radio. Television. Front page headlines. She brushed the hair away from her eyes and looked down at her naked body. Fresh blood left long, red streaks up her legs, and little, damp smudges on her buttocks.

Just like Catherine.

“…
third woman found brutally slain
…” the announcer went on.

Makedde tried not to listen. Her face was ashen. Small smudges of blood led across the floor. Beneath the sound of the radio, the telephone started to ring, but still she sat there, immobilised by the sight of the red blotches on the floor. It coated her body and pooled out all around her, smelling sharply of metal and decomposing flesh. It was so frightfully red, so like the blood that had covered Catherine’s corpse. She looked at her body as if she were bathed in the crimson of her insides, but then she blinked again and the blood was practically gone; just a couple of
harmless streaks. The trail of tiny blood drops led straight to the shower. “Damn razors!” she cried out when she realised its source.

By the fifth ring she managed to stand up and carefully cross the room. She didn’t care about answering the call. Before anything else, she had to turn off that wretched announcer.

“…
police say
…”

The radio signal mercifully faded away as she switched the dial. When the phone rang once more, Makedde picked it up.

“Hello?”

Click
.

She hurled the infuriating machine across the room. It sailed through the air, hitting the back wall with a clap and a tinkle. Breathing slowly and deliberately, Makedde reached for the towel and dried her feet, mindful that she didn’t stain it with the bleeding cut on her ankle. Just as her heart was slowing to a regular pace, Makedde was startled by a loud, unexpected buzzer. It took her a few moments to register what it was—it was the first time anyone had used the intercom.

“Hello?”

“It’s Detective Flynn. May I have a word with you?”

Detective Flynn?
“I…this isn’t the best time.”

She suddenly felt very naked.

“Do you have company?”

“No. I just came out of the shower.” She looked at her watch. It was almost 9 p.m. “Isn’t it a bit late?”

He paused. “I can wait till you’re decent.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes.”

Oh, stop being such a bitch to the man, Makedde!

“That’s all right. I’ll quickly throw something on. Just wait,” she told him. Makedde hung up the intercom and ran over to pick the phone off the floor. She propped it up in its normal spot and raced to the bathroom to quickly wet some tissue and wipe the streaks of blood off her legs. She pulled on a pair of Levi’s and a sweater out of the chest of drawers beside the bed, and did up the last button on her jeans as she walked back to the intercom.

“You still there?” Makedde asked the street.

“Yes,” Flynn’s voice came back.

“Come on up.”

As an afterthought, she looked in the tiny wall mirror and checked her residual make-up and wet hair, which she’d tied into a quick knot. It was obvious she had been crying and the mirror was far from complimentary, but she didn’t look quite as terrible as she felt. When she opened the door, Andy smiled at her. He wore an attractive, though slightly wrinkled, single-breasted navy suit.

“Sorry to bother you. I was in the area and I…um—”

“Please come in,” she said, then stepped back and turned away, so that he wouldn’t have time to register her puffy eyes. His timing was bad. She didn’t want him to know she had been crying. “I’m sorry if I responded a bit harshly the other night,” she said over her shoulder as she walked towards the open kitchen.

“That was just something stupid that popped out. It was totally inappropriate. I apologise,” he said.

“Good. Well, I’m glad we…uh, understand each other.” She walked to the kitchen counter and pretended to be busy arranging the dishes. “How can I help you then?” she said.

Andy walked over to the entrance of the kitchen and leant against the wall. “Well, like I said, I was in the area and I had some questions for you. Tony Thomas has been hanging around your door. I wanted to know if he’s been bothering you.”

“
Not really,” she said with her back to him.

“
Not really
? What does that mean?”

She was silent.

“Hey? Are you OK?”

She brought her hands down to rest on the countertop, and turned her face to look at him. “Not really,” she said simply.

Andy’s composed expression lost all of its hardened professionalism when their eyes met. He moved to her side, and carefully put a hand on hers. “Hey, it’s OK. You’re coping really well.”

“I’m not so sure,” she said, annoyed that her lip was trembling and she couldn’t make it stop.

“Trust me, you are. I’ve seen good cops go to pieces over stuff like this. You’re very strong.”

Her thoughts were confused, her body urging her to do things that were inappropriate. She wanted to move into his arms and let them close around her. She wanted to tilt her head up, taste his lips.

“I uh…” She pulled away from the temptation, away from his comforting hand. “I’m OK, really. What else did you want to ask me?”

Andy responded in kind, moving back and putting his hands in his suit pockets. “Makedde, what’s Tony Thomas been up to?”

“Well…”

His expression became serious. “Makedde.”

“Fine,” she said. “If you really want to know, he invited himself over for lunch yesterday, barged in with some cheap flowers, lived up to his reputation as a half-wit sleaze and left crying.”

“Crying?” Andy looked shocked. “Jesus, Makedde. He’s a suspect. Whatever you’re doing, just stop. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“Excuse me? How am I
not
involved in this?” she asked.

“Just don’t get yourself into trouble.” Mak raised herself up slightly, so that she was his height. Her face was close to his when she said with
renewed confidence, “I can take care of myself, Detective.”

He gave her a long, steady look, which she returned unflinchingly.

“So, did you find anything out?” he finally asked.

“He seemed pretty anxious about the police going through his files. He did admit to having chosen the photo shoot location, but he claimed he chose that particular beach to avoid paying a hefty permit.”

“That’s all? No confession?”

She gave him a withering look.

“If you ever thought of becoming a detective,” he said matter-of-factly, “well, don’t. It’s not very glamorous.”

“Did you just come here to underestimate me, or did you actually have something valid to say?” she snapped.

“Just stay out of this investigation and keep away from the suspects.”

“Thanks for your advice. Have a good evening,” she said bluntly. “Unless there is something more you wanted to ask me?”

“No. Nothing else,” he said, but his eyes contradicted him. “Tony could be very dangerous. If he tries to contact you again, let me know right away.” Detective Flynn resumed his mask of professional detachment. “Thank you for your time, Miss Vanderwall.” He turned to leave but his eyes caught
something in the main room and widened. He walked over to it.

“There’s blood on your floor.”

She felt herself blush as she followed him out of the small kitchen. “Oh, it’s nothing…girl stuff.” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew how it would sound.

He grimaced and stepped back.

“No, no. Not
that
kind of girl stuff,” she assured him. “I cut my ankle shaving.”

“Oh!” he said with a laugh. “Well, are you OK?”

“Yeah. It just bled a bit because of the hot shower. The cut’s small. Nothing really. How’s your hand?”

“Oh, fine.” He looked down at the Band-Aids on his knuckles. “OK. Well…I’ll be going then.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air but a second later the moment of awkward intimacy was broken and he turned and walked to the door. She said goodbye and watched him disappear down the stairs and onto the street.