The Mak Collection (10 page)

“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.

There were several unusual elements in the “Stiletto Murders”, and as the days dragged on, Detective Flynn had become more and more obsessed with re-analysing and re-interpreting the evidence. He knew that in signature killings, every violent and perverse detail of the crime scene and victimology offered potentially valuable insights into the killer’s personality. However Catherine Gerber’s murder provided few clues, and many more questions.

He had spent all morning poring over the facts yet again, trying unsuccessfully to join up any personal or professional link between the three known victims. It seemed that they had a random killer on their hands; the hardest type to catch.

“Any thoughts on the condom thing?” Andy asked out of the blue, as Jimmy walked past his desk carrying his lunch, which reeked of garlic and onions.

“I reckon this malaka plans to kill ’em the moment he lays eyes on ’em,” Jimmy replied. “So he’s using the skins for his own reasons.” He stopped and leant on Andy’s desk, biting into a gyros sandwich.
Tzatziki oozed out of the pita bread, down his fingers to his wrists. Jimmy was oblivious. “If my hooker-hater theory is right my friend,” he said with his mouth full, “maybe he’s afraid of AIDS. That could be another reason he likes them young.”

“There’s blood everywhere,” Andy pointed out. “If STDs or HIV was his concern, he would take other precautions as well. Maybe he does. I’ve got the feeling he doesn’t want to leave semen because he’s familiar with forensic procedure. Half these guys study fuckin’ law enforcement and forensics when they’re inside.”

“Yeah. Such a wise use of their time.”

“And our money. So you figure he’s got a record.”

“Possibly.”

The two detectives stood silently.

“Where does he do ’em, Andy? He’d look like a fuckin’ abattoir worker by the time he was finished. He can’t have a wife, I wouldn’t think.”

Andy stared at the running board; at the dead faces of Roxanne, Cristelle and Catherine. Makedde’s impressive physique threatened to distract him completely. Suddenly the red pen marking her body looked like blood. He turned away.

“He doesn’t bother taking the jewellery, which is a common souvenir, and he only takes one shoe, not both. So he’s not giving them to his wife as a sick gift or anything. You’re right, he probably lives alone.
But we can’t assume that. The other clothes are missing. What does he do with them?”