The Shadow Maker (27 page)

She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. ‘Is she alive?’

‘Yes, but still unconscious. I thought you might want to join me at the crime scene.’

‘I will. As soon as I’ve got dressed and poured a coffee down my throat. Give me the address.’

As Rita made her way through the forensic science officers in her plastic suit, she could see the crime scene was a parallel of the previous two. The same type of scenario was there again, with the buckled leather straps, the lanterns and the blood-stained knife.

‘Not my idea of a quiet Sunday morning,’ greeted Strickland, unshaven with a blast of nicotine on his breath, ‘picking through the debris of another bondage mutilation. And what’s with the soft lighting?’

‘The Hacker needs his imitation cave,’ Rita explained, ‘with a prisoner in the shadows before he inflicts the symbolic wounds.’

There was blood on the bed, on the floor, and a spray of it on the silk tapestries.

Rita bent down to a chalk circle around a stain on the floor, next to the circled carving knife.

‘What was here?’ she asked.

‘The severed tongue,’ said Strickland. ‘And if that’s symbolic, even I can see a common theme in his three attacks:
see no evil, hear no
evil, speak no evil
. Or am I way off beam?’

‘It’s possible you’re right,’ Rita said, ‘but do you really think he’ll stop at three?’

Strickland shook his head, ‘No. So what’s his next mutilation?’

‘When he wounds his victims it’s an act of sense deprivation, so he’ll target another sense organ,’ said Rita. ‘And that makes him consistent with Plato, who argued that our senses are obstacles to perceiving the real world. The Hacker has taken the point literally.’

‘We’re back into mad philosopher territory,’ Strickland said with a groan.

Rita noticed an unopened condom on the floor.

‘He gets angry if they try to take control,’ she observed, squatting down to peer at a liquor bottle lying on its side. It had already been dusted for prints, and there were traces of blood and hair on its surface.

‘Is this what he used to subdue her?’ she asked.

‘Probably,’ said Strickland. ‘The doctors say her injuries include a blow to the head. My guess is she gave him a drink,’ he pointed to a glass, ‘after which he bashed her with the bottle, bound her, raped her and cut out her tongue. I think the only reason she survived was thanks to a friend turning up almost immediately afterwards. By the way, that second girl could be a witness.’

‘She saw the Hacker?’

‘No, but she saw a car drive off - and it wasn’t an MX-5, it was a black ute. Hopefully the victim will be able to confirm it once she’s conscious.’ Strickland shook his head. ‘By switching cars, this psycho may have outsmarted himself. It gives us something to cross-reference.’

‘The more I see of his work, the less I’m inclined to consider him a psychopath,’ said Rita, standing up and opening her notebook.

‘It’s as if he goes in organised and comes out disorganised, almost as though he carries in one fantasy, then impulsively acts out another.

I think we’re dealing with a delusional offender.’

‘Sorry, but I’m missing the subtle distinction,’ growled Strickland, heading for the door on his way to another cigarette. ‘I don’t see how it helps if the Hacker’s cracking up.’

It was late afternoon before Rita could question the victim in hospital.

The girl’s eyes stared at her, full of terrible fear and incomprehension.

Padding protruded from her mouth. Surgical dressing was taped to her skull where the blow had split the skin and stunned her.

Emergency surgery had gone as far as possible to repair the physical trauma to her throat and larynx, and stitch up the damage to her wounded lips. But microsurgery to reattach the tongue had been ruled out; it was beyond repair. The psychological trauma would never heal.

Her name was Hei Vuong
.
She printed it on a pad. Her friend, who’d saved her life, sat beside the hospital bed, clutching her hand.

Strickland stood in the background, hands in pockets. A police artist waited with him. A doctor kept watch on them all.

Rita asked the questions patiently, and watched as the young woman wrote down the answers. It was a slow, painful process.

‘What did he look like?’ asked Rita.

Normal guy
, wrote the girl.
Smooth, handsome face.

‘What about his hair?’

Dark. Neat.

‘Did you see his eyes?’

No. He wore glasses.

‘Did they have mirror lenses?’

Yes. Then he put on a mask.

‘A bronze mask?’

Yes.

‘What was he wearing?’

Denim shirt. Black jeans.

‘What car was he driving?’

Black ute.

‘Ford or Holden?’

Don’t know.

‘Did you notice the numberplate?’

No.

‘Did he mention a name?’

No.

‘An area, or a place of work?’

No.

Rita sighed and glanced over her shoulder at Strickland. So far there was little new information to go on.

‘Where and when did he pick you up?’ she resumed.

Victoria Street, about two o’clock.

‘Did he ask for bondage?’

Yes. Then he drove me home.

‘I’m going to take a guess about what happened next,’ Rita told her. ‘But stop me if I get any detail wrong, okay? He paid and you offered him a drink, which he accepted. He asked you to light the lanterns and switch off the electric lights, which you did. You attached the bondage equipment to the bed, and in the process of you both getting undressed he put on the mask. Then you picked up a condom.

Did he say anything at any stage?’

Only when I asked about the mask
, wrote the girl.

‘Give me his exact answer.’

He said, ‘It’s my other face.’

Rita stared at the words on the pad before continuing. ‘Tell me how he attacked you.’

He went crazy
, wrote the girl.
He hit me with the bottle. I felt
nothing but I could still see and hear.

‘So you were still conscious?’ asked Rita.

Yes. But numb all over.

Rita swore under her breath, but went on. ‘What did he do?’

He threw me on the bed. Raped me like an animal. Then he got a
meat knife from the kitchen. I thought he would kill me. But he cut
out my tongue.

Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t go on.

Rita glanced at the police artist. The man raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief. Strickland was frowning, arms folded.

She turned back to Hei but the girl was convulsing, unable to get breath into her lungs. The doctor called for assistance and the police contingent was swiftly ushered out of the room as the medical staff sedated her again.

‘This is going to be a slow process,’ said Strickland.

Rita nodded. ‘I doubt we’ll get much more.’

Rita left the hospital in a subdued mood, carrying dark thoughts about the Hacker’s mental state, and depressing images of another young life in ruins. She arrived back in the taskforce room with Strickland to add the latest evidence to the case files and to hear Mace addressing his team ahead of another visit to the nightclub.

The atmosphere was tense.

‘The Vietnamese victim would be dead but for the quick thinking of her friend,’ Mace told the detectives, his voice edgy. ‘That was lucky for her and lucky for us. It also means we now have an artist’s impression of the Hacker. We’re about to release this to the media but don’t let that distract you. It’s to keep them occupied as much as anything else. I’m not confident it’s accurate. Looks like any other yuppie to me. So keep in mind it’s just an impression. We’ll question anyone tonight who bears even a vague resemblance.’

Mace breathed out heavily then he went on. ‘Now, what I’m about to add is very important. I know you weren’t expecting to be called out again tonight, but it’s because of other developments. It means, initially, we’ll be playing a secondary role.’ His rough features were creased with a hard frown as he gazed around the faces in the room.

‘For more than three months, Jim Proctor has been running a secret surveillance operation against Tony Kavella. I won’t go into details, other than to say that in the next couple of hours Proctor’s Taskforce Nero will be launching raids against gangland organisations around the city. A key target is the Plato’s Cave nightclub, and the offices attached to it. One of the aims is to shut Kavella down - permanently.

If all hell breaks loose, we’ll be there as backup. If it goes smoothly, we’ll follow up with another trawl through the clubbers for anyone matching the Hacker’s description.’ He paused to let the implications sink in. ‘Okay, let’s roll. And again - I don’t want any slip-ups.’

Mace led the team from the room, leaving Rita and Strickland facing each other across the table.

‘The shit’s about to hit the fan,’ said Strickland, pulling himself up from his chair. ‘We might as well pack it in for the night.’

‘I’ll just type up some notes,’ Rita told him.

‘Well, don’t knock yourself out. We’re about to be overtaken by events. Kavella won’t go down without a fight.’

As Strickland left, Rita dragged over a keyboard, logged on and started filing the details supplied by Hei Vuong. She was sitting alone in the room, elbows on the table, when Jim Proctor strode in.

‘Good, I wanted to catch up with you,’ he said, leaning on the table beside her. ‘I assume you’ve heard we’re going in tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Less than two hours to go, and we’re hitting all of them at once. I’ve had to bring the raids forward because Kavella’s very twitchy, thanks to Mace going into the club mob-handed two nights in a row.’ Proctor sat down in the chair beside her. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I need to talk to you about. We’ve got Kavella on tape planning to do a runner to some secret bolthole he’s got. And there’s something else you have to hear.’ He gestured to the keyboard. ‘May I?’

‘Help yourself,’ said Rita, moving aside.

She watched Proctor pull a USB memory stick from his pocket, plug it in and call up a digital audio file.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

She nodded, he hit the play button and the voices of Kavella and Brendan Moyle came out of the speaker:

Kavella:
Why do I bother paying cops if they don’t give me more
warning?

Moyle:
Deadshits.

Kavella:
I want everything in place, in case I get the final word.

Moyle:
No problem. They won’t see us for dust.

Kavella:
Once we’re out we can take it easy - a long holiday in the
Caribbean - I’m almost looking forward to it. But there’s one piece of
unfinished business.

Moyle:
If you want me to do the bitch, it’d be a pleasure.

Kavella:
I’m through with twisting her tail, it’s party time. I want to fuck
her over. I want to make her bleed. I want her to scream. I want her
dead!

Moyle:
I’m on it.

Kavella:
No, you’re staying with me. Get the Duck. Tell him to kill Van
Hassel and let me know how he did it.

Proctor hit the stop button and stared at her gravely. ‘Of course we’ve got him right there on conspiracy to murder,’ he said.

She gave him a grim smile. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m sorry, I bear a lot of responsibility.’

‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘Kavella’s been out for revenge since his arrest. You’ve just helped speed things up.’

‘I’ve booked two patrol cars for you tonight,’ Proctor went on.

‘One out front, the other in the alleyway at the back of your house.

That should keep you safe.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Now go home, lock up and wait for tomorrow’s news.’ Proctor stood up, smiling. ‘We’re about to make some headlines.’

Rita was overtired. She’d been woken before dawn and the pressures of the long day had worn her down. Once she’d checked through the house with the patrol officers, she saw them out, locking and bolting the doors behind them. Then she double-checked that all the windows were secure, a habit she’d developed since the anonymous guest had let himself in to watch her TV and rummage through her things. Next she tidied up a bit, straightening her books and videos, and finally, she tended to the feng shui balance of her bedroom -

making delicate adjustments to the positions of the mirrors, indoor ferns, the bamboo screen, the wooden drawers. It was only just after ten o’clock, with almost an hour to go till Proctor’s raids, but she was ready for bed.

She propped herself up on pillows and switched off the lamp, but she’d left the blinds partly open to let in some streetlight. The room was full of deep shadows, but not complete darkness. As her eyes adjusted she could see the outlines of the objects around her, and the glimmer of the gun on the sheet beside her. It was a Smith & Wesson .38, with a chequered walnut grip and satin nickel stock.

More than once she picked it up, felt the weight, then put it down again. Its presence was reassuring. And while her rational mind told her to set aside fears of an intruder - baleful imaginings that come in the night - the glossy metal presence of the revolver felt like a protective charm, in addition to the cops on watch outside.

It wasn’t long before the security of the gun, and the weight of tiredness, had her eyelids drooping. As she nodded off, she slumped down further onto the pillows, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

She woke within minutes, bleary-eyed and wondering for a moment why she was propped up in bed. Then she remembered, and with a jolt was suddenly alert. Something - she didn’t know what - had disturbed her sleep. Instinctively she reached for the gun, hardly daring to breathe. The room was no different. Solid with shadows cast by the dim streetlight. The air warm and still.

No sounds in the dead of night. No traffic, no footsteps. Nothing at all. Maybe she was mistaken, letting her fears get to her. But just as her breathing started to ease, she heard it. The quiet scraping of something overhead, a possum on the roof perhaps. When it came again she realised it wasn’t
on
the roof, the sound was
in
the roof. A moment later she heard the creak of the ceiling trapdoor being opened above the kitchen, followed by the groan of the loose floorboard under the linoleum. Someone was inside her house, moving slowly towards her bedroom.