The Mak Collection (12 page)

“Any updates on the case?” she asked.

“No.”

“Now, there must be
something
you can tell me. You don’t sit hunched intensely over a laptop like that without something on your mind.”

“I’ll let you know of any progress.”

Makedde didn’t believe that for a second.

He rose and she followed him back to the elevator and stood with her arms crossed on the opposite side as
it took them down several floors. As they rattled down in the otherwise quiet building, Andy turned and smiled weakly at her, shaking his head at the noise. She offered a thin-lipped smile in return. When the doors opened, he led her to an area housing a series of uninhabited holding cells. Along one wall she saw the fingerprinting station; the large black ink pad, and clips for holding the fingerprint forms in place. The wooden surface of the printing table was smeared with the efforts of uncooperative offenders, and the large sink which sat beside the set-up had no doubt once been white, but was now a grimy grey.

“How many separate prints were picked up in the flat?” she asked, throwing her coat over a clean table.

“Several.”

“Several as in…three? Four? Sixteen?”

“ We picked up at least four different clear sets. Happy now?”

“Happier. But I’d be much happier if you,”
stopped treating me like an airhead
, “could tell me more about the progress of the investigation.”

“You were wise to roll up your sleeves,” he said, ignoring her comment and taking her by the wrist. His grip took her by surprise. She didn’t pull away, and let him lead her towards the ink pad. He had a form already sitting in its clips, ready for her prints.

He took her wrist in his left hand and held her thumb with the fingers of his right. He pressed her
thumb to the ink pad and rolled it from one side to the other, thoroughly coating most of its circumference.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to—” Mak began.

“ To get proper prints, I have to do this.”

“Don’t I seem like a cooperative criminal to you, Detective?” she asked.

She sensed subtle embarrassment. “Cooperation has nothing to do with it,” he stated. “I’ve had to redo loads of fingerprints when they weren’t done correctly.”

He twisted her thumb to one side and placed it on the sheet, slowly rolling it across until the complete print was accomplished. They shuffled over to the ink pad together and he thoroughly smeared her index finger in the same way.

Surely I could ink my own hands?

“How do you ever get actual perps to do this?” Makedde asked.

“Crims? Sometimes it takes a few of us.”

“And some considerable persuasion I would imagine.” He looked like he could be quite persuasive when he chose to be. She gazed at his hands as he manipulated hers. She hadn’t noticed before, but his left knuckles were scarred, precisely where the Band-Aids covered his right ones. An ambidextrous bruiser?

“Is that how you cut your hand? Persuading someone?” she asked.

He stiffened. “Nothing like that.”

“Uh huh.” She wasn’t convinced.

They were both silent as he inked and printed her middle, fourth and pinkie fingers. When Senior Sergeant Flynn went to ink her left palm, he moved in closer, his chest pressing into her shoulder, and his face tilted in front of hers. She glanced at his wrinkled shirt collar and the smooth olive skin of his neck, recalling the way he had affected her in the interview room under the mad full moon.

And the way he brushed me off
.

“So, you’re the daughter of a Detective Inspector?”

“Indeed.”

“How long have you been modelling?”

“Started at fourteen, and a couple of years ago I began studying for my PhD in forensic psychology.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, you’re pulling my arm.”

He let go.

“Right now I need to continue modelling between semesters to pay my way through. Besides, I like the travel.”

He swallowed hard, then smiled. “A shrink, huh?”

“I doubt that shrink is the appropriate term. But I’m not yet a qualified psychologist, no.”

He seemed to muse on that as she inked her own right thumb and brought it over to the sheet. He let
her print it herself, then said, “May I?” before helping her print her index finger.

He was leaning close to her when he said, “So, you’re studying to find interesting ways to get the crims I catch off with some screwy psychobabble?”

“You’ve been watching too many movies. You should know as well as I do that few offenders go for the insanity plea and fewer still are acquitted. No, I’m more interested in criminal justice personnel psychology, so I can stop people like you from jumping off buildings after a bad homicide.”

“Very cute.”

She smiled.

After printing her right hand, she walked to the sink and examined a peculiar gritty soap, also smudged with black ink.

“That should get most of it off,” Andy offered.

“I’ll bet,” she countered sceptically, and started scrubbing her hands. “Flynn’s an Irish name, isn’t it?” she asked casually.

“Yup. My family’s been here for a couple of generations, but I’ve got a bit of Irish from way back. Scottish, too.”

“Really? Can you do a Sean Connery?”

“Well, Miss Money Penny…” he said in a rounded Scotch accent.

She felt herself go weak at the knees. She had to get him to stop, or she would be jelly in his hands.
“Beautiful countries; Scotland and Ireland,” she managed to say, grateful that her back was to him. “Have you been?”

“Nope.”

“I guess your work makes it hard to take time off.”

He didn’t respond.

Makedde scrubbed until her hands felt raw before deciding to give up on making them clean. Her skin was pink in spots and vaguely grimy in others. Her nails looked like they’d been done with a black French manicure.

“Since I’ve been so cooperative, maybe you can put a little more effort into finding Mister Wrong,” she said. “I know you don’t have much to go on but—”

“I assure you, we’re on to it.”

“No new leads to his identity?”
The ring?

“No.”

“OK.” She let it rest for the moment. “Just let me know what comes up.” She knew it was pointless to mention the ring before she had any more information. They would have found it in the search and had obviously thought nothing of it. Makedde picked up her coat, grateful that it was black, and started towards the door. What the detective said next stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Would you like to go out sometime?”

For a moment she simply stared at her hand fixed around the door knob.

“Do you ask out all of your witnesses, Detective, or just the ones who are models?” she asked.

“First time, actually. I guessed you probably didn’t have a lot of friends here.”

“I have plenty of friends, thank you,” she fibbed. “So do you, by the looks of things.”

He smiled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Detective Flynn escorted her politely to the elevator.

“Thank you for your help Miss Vanderwall,” he offered coolly as she stepped out.

Makedde felt the urge to apologise for being so terse, but suddenly he was gone. He had taken her completely off guard. What was it with that guy? One minute she wanted to wring his neck and the next moment she wanted to kiss it.

She threw her coat on and walked out to the street. “Do you ask out all your witnesses or just the models?” she mumbled in an irritating impersonation of herself. “Blah-blah-blah.
Idiot
.”

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.”