Without Consent (14 page)

Geoff Willard lay in the dim light, body
aching. He wasn’t sure what hurt more—his back from where he had taken the boot, or his hand from where he had punched the bastard who did it. His right hand felt broken but he could just make a fist. All he’d wanted to do last night was sleep where he lay on the floor in the rotunda. In the park, he’d been out of sight but could see the main road and police patrols. He hadn’t bargained on being beaten up by a couple of drunk teenagers with dutch courage. At least one of them had scored a broken jaw for his trouble. He suppressed a grin at the way the boy had whimpered as he slunk away.

Now, Geoff sat, propped against the wall. He had chosen this place because the old-style laundry was separate from the rear of the house. No pets in the backyard to alert the owners, either. He heard the back door open and slam shut, followed by heavy footsteps down the steps. The owner wheezed in between each step. Having taken the light globe out as a precaution, Geoff pulled himself behind the door and waited.

The door creaked open and the light switch clicked on and off. He inhaled the secondhand cigarette smoke from the other side.

“Marge, the globe’s blown,” bellowed the elderly voice. The owner coughed a few times and then managed, “I’ll fix it later.”

The footsteps back to the house were slower. The old man struggled up the flight, and after what seemed like ages, the back door slammed again.

Geoff breathed out. Since the door had been left ajar, he could make out men’s clothes hanging on a rail. He quickly stripped, grabbed a flannel shirt, a pair of pants and a large jumper. A woollen cardigan tied around his waist would be good for extra warmth tonight. A large pair of women’s knickers lay on a pile on the washing machine. He picked up the pair and took a moment to sniff the crotch area before throwing them back. The coins in the pockets of the other trousers would feed him today.

Hearing nothing but the sound of a distant lawnmower, he slipped out of the door and down the side of the house.

A few streets away, he found a huge fast-food takeaway place on the corner. After a hamburger meal, he felt a lot better. Four cups of coffee later, and two trips to the toilet, Geoffrey Willard decided to find Nick’s friend Luke. At least he had tried to help the other night. Finding someone wasn’t hard. The guys in prison had taught him how to do lots of stuff. All he had to do was remember things, like he did with movies and TV shows.

Nick had written the phone number down on a pad next to the phone, and Geoff remembered it really easily. Everyone thought he was dumb, but they would be surprised to find out how much he really could do. He could say Nick’s credit-card numbers off by heart after going through his wallet.

At the takeaway, Geoff dialled Luke’s number on the public phone. A woman answered.

“Hello, is that the home of Desiree Platt?” He felt like “Sunny” again and made his voice sound deep, so she wouldn’t recognize him.

“Who’s asking?”

Geoff cleared his throat. “I’m just checking the address on a package going to your house. The street number got smudged and it looks like eighty-seven.”

“What’s in the package?” The woman sounded bored.

“It’s a steam mop and a box of cleaning products worth over a thousand dollars from the Spring Clean Your House promotion.” He tried to make his voice sound like a TV announcer, like the fellows in jail had taught him.

“I don’t remember entering that competition.”

“If you don’t want the prize, I’ll let them know. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait,” she said. “Now I remember. I enter so many competitions, sometimes I forget. I’m at thirty-eight Fitzwilliam Street.”

“You need to sign for it, so will you be home in the next hour?”

“I’ve got a check-up at the clinic, but I should be back by two.”

“Thank you, madam, and congratulations on your prize.” Geoff hung up, pleased with himself. Stupid bitch, he thought. People’d tell you anything if they think it will get them something.

Geoff had been inside the house for over two hours and helped himself to crisps, biscuits, black coffee and some cash from a jar in the kitchen. He’d also ordered pizza using one of Nick’s credit cards and flowers for the girl at the op shop on another. One more thing he’d learned was how to get away with using other people’s accounts. The trick was to take small amounts at a time. Most people were too dumb to check their statements and had cards lying around the house that they didn’t carry with them.

No sleeping outside for him tonight, he decided, as the bossy cow waddled through the front door.

She froze as she saw him on the lounge. He recognized fear in her eyes.

“What do you want?”

Geoff sat still, enjoying the power.

“Please don’t hurt me or my baby.”

She looked more like a Teletubby than a person. He wondered what Luke saw in her. “Sit down and shut up!”

Desiree put down her bag, slowly walked into the room and lowered herself into a single lounge nearest the door. “Luke said the police are after you. You should go, they’re probably watching the place.”

“Bullshit.” He knew she was scared. Her eyes were so wide they could have popped out.

“No. They searched your house and took stuff. Nick reckons they’re following him, too.”

Geoff tried to think. It was like before, with Eileen Randall. His heart started to race. They weren’t happy hounding him. They wanted him back in prison.

They sat in silence, with a clock on the mantelpiece ticking away. Geoff wanted to smash the fucking thing. He stood up as they heard voices at the door. One of them was Nick’s.

Luke and Nick were laughing as they came through the door, but Luke went pale when he saw his visitor. “Are you all right?” he said, putting his arm around his wife.

She clutched her bag and ran to the bedroom.

“Jesus, what are you doing
here
?” Nick asked.

Geoff stood up, almost collapsed with the pain in his back. “I got bashed. I think my hand’s broken and I’m pissing blood as well.”

“Jesus, mate.” Nick’s eyes darted around the room. “You’re in deep shit this time. Where did you disappear to?”

“I want him out of my house.” Luke stood, fists clenched. “He bloody killed that schoolteacher.”

“Bullshit.” Geoff stepped toward Luke. “You’re lying.”

Nick stepped between them. “Back off. He’s right. The cops came around and took a whole heap of your stuff. There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

Desiree came back and went straight to Luke’s side. “The police are on their way.”

Sirens sounded in the distance, then went quiet. Car doors slammed outside. Luke looked through the window. “Christ! The place is full of cops and they’ve got guns. Get down!” He took a couple of steps and pulled his wife and unborn child to the floor.

Sweat dripped off Nick’s face.

Geoff had never seen his cousin so afraid. He looked around the room and fell to his knees in pain. Sunny was going back to prison.

Veronica Slater sat cross-legged, short
skirt revealing the upper part of her thighs. “Dan’s talked about this place. I had to come and see for myself. It’s quaint, and in good condition considering the area.”

Elaine delivered the water. Not the bottled variety, as Veronica had requested, but affordable, fluoridated tap-water.

Anya drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. If this lawyer were offering work, she would be insane not to take it, no matter how annoying the woman could be. Her private practice needed to expand, and alienating Dan Brody via Veronica wouldn’t help.

Elaine glanced upward and left the room.

“As part of my pro bono work, I represent a man named Geoffrey Willard.”

Anya understood that meant Legal Aid was paying for the defense and could only pay around one-third of her normal fee. She let out a breath as Veronica continued.

“He’s been charged with the rape and murder of Elizabeth Dorman, and I gather the police might be looking at him for a series of rapes as well, based on similar pattern evidence. He surrendered to police after allegedly breaking into some woman’s home. Have you read about the case?”

“I don’t put much credence on what I read in newspapers.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “That exposé on you last year was quite a piece of work.”

Anya detected a hint of sarcasm and wanted the meeting to end before she said something on impulse she’d later regret. “What would you like me to consult on?”

“Well, I wanted to go through some of the evidence with you. If the police argue the crimes are inextricably linked in terms of the pattern of evidence, I want to know whether or not that’s true.”

“The information on the sexual assaults has to come from the police. I’m not in a position to discuss that at this stage.”

“Even though I hear you examined the victims and are involved in the police investigation? Of course, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything unethical.” Veronica smirked. “I’d like you to go over the pathological findings in the murder of Eileen Randall, from twenty years ago. She’s the fourteen-year-old girl Willard was convicted of raping and killing.” She paused, then added, “I also wanted to ask you what you know about Asperger’s syndrome.”

Anya thought of her recent conversation with Ben about the preschool boy he would not play with. “It’s considered a variant of autism.”

“Excellent. There’s been a question as to whether or not Willard has the syndrome and was never previously diagnosed. It could be a valid defense if necessary. He may not have been responsible enough to commit any crime, let alone premeditated rape and murder.” Her mobile phone rang and she excused herself to argue with someone on the other end.

Anya studied her. She guessed Veronica was the sort of woman who didn’t have female friends. She probably justified it by saying that her success intimidated and threatened other women. The reality was, she was just one of those ambitious people who used anyone she could to get what she wanted. Only women saw right through the act because they weren’t distracted by the package. Medicine had its share of “Veronicas.” The sad thing was that they were bright enough to do well without being prize bitches and put-down queens.

The powerpaths and sociopaths who pursued their own agendas without a conscience weren’t all in prison, she thought, as Veronica kept her waiting even longer.

Veronica returned to her seat and checked her watch. “Where were we?”

“A diagnosis of Asperger’s doesn’t preclude responsibility, and it’s not a form of mental illness. Half of the professors at universities are thought to have it. It’s associated with high IQ, sometimes what we call ‘pencil intelligence,’ where someone has a lot of knowledge in one area but low emotional intelligence.”

“Emotional intelligence sounds like an oxymoron,” she quipped.

“Surely you’ve met brilliant legal minds who have very few social skills.” Anya wondered whether Veronica could in fact be a sufferer. The thought was almost reassuring. “People with the syndrome are capable of telling right from wrong. Using that as a defense tactic might go against your client in court.”

Clearly, that didn’t impress Veronica Slater. The forced smile disappeared. She unwrapped the pink ribbon from a large stack of paper and instead of extracting a sample, handed over the lot. “Here are copies of the original court transcripts and expert reports. I’d like you to review the PM and reports on Eileen Randall and compare her wounds with the ones inflicted on the Dorman woman. Any differences, I want highlighted.”

“And similarities?”

The false smile returned.

“We’ll deal with that if the time comes. I don’t know why the police are so keen to stitch up my client for the rapes, but I want to know if there are inconsistencies in the victims’ statements.”

Anya said, “I guess you’ll see the police brief if those charges are laid.”

Veronica stood and pulled her miniskirt down a mini amount. “Can you have the report done by Monday morning? My client’s on remand and he should be out on bail.”

The last thing Anya wanted was to spend the whole weekend working for Veronica. “I’ll do what I can,” she managed, feeling her face redden.

“Excellent.” Veronica checked her watch and collected an immaculate leather briefcase. “Don’t want to keep Dan waiting,” she said, and tottered off.

Elaine came back in. “She’s a piece of work, don’t you think?”

Anya didn’t answer. A signature on the PM report caught her attention. “Oh hell,” she muttered. “Things just got more complicated.”

“Why? What does she want?” Elaine bent over to look at the papers.

“The pathologist and expert witness in Willard’s original trial was Alf Carney.”

Anya arrived at the cabin by the beach
and unpacked the car. She’d booked the weekend away at the last minute, to examine first-hand the site at which Eileen Randall had been murdered, and was grateful for cheap, decent accommodation. The drive to Fisherman’s Bay had the normal Friday night exodus crawling along the freeway. So much for getting away, she thought, but as the traffic thinned along the coast road, the drive became more relaxing—and liberating. Even in the moonlight, the scenery was impressive.

She placed a box of groceries and wine on the kitchen bench and opened the sliding door. The fresh sea breeze cooled the cabin almost immediately.

The best part was no interruptions, just privacy, sea air and the sound of the ocean. And the pile of papers to review. The clock on the wall chimed eight. She decided to go for a walk to buy milk and other perishables. And maybe even fish and chips followed by some decadent, fat-filled ice-cream.

The Bay was smaller than the internet pictures suggested, but there were a number of takeaway shops, equipment-hire sheds and a discount supermarket on the way into town. Two cafés, a restaurant and all but one of the takeaways were closed.

Over the jazz band, Anya asked at the pub why almost everything was shut on a Friday night. The woman at the bar just laughed.

“Darl, people moved here to get away from the city. None of the locals wants to work twenty-four hours, seven days a week.” She poured a beer. “Here’s a tip. If you want a hot chicken tomorrow, you’d better pick it up in the morning or they’ll be sold out. They only cook once a day.”

Anya had to smile. Tourists wanted it all—the nature and unspoilt atmosphere of a coastal town, with round-the-clock conveniences.

“We never asked for tourists,” she said, not hesitating to take a hundred-dollar note from a group who looked anything but local.

On the way back to the beach cabin, kids hovered on the corner, some riding bikes, others egging drinkers on; all of them smoking. Friday nights and boredom in a country town hadn’t changed since she was a child.

With an increased appetite, she opened the wine as soon as she reached the house, devoured the hamburger—beetroot included—and consumed half the calamari. Why was it that the smell inside takeaways always made her buy more than she could ever eat?

A cushioned wicker sofa proved much more comfortable than it suggested. Anya put her glass on the wooden floor and began to read the musty file.

The half-dressed body of Eileen Randall was found at two a.m. on Koonaka Beach. From the police report, a local teenage girl and friend of the deceased had seen a man with blood-stained clothing holding the dead girl’s underpants. The witness identified the man as Geoffrey Willard.

At the time, Willard had been arrested for malicious damage to a car and had been cautioned about antisocial behavior. One of his former teachers said that Willard had always been different from the other children and, as a result, was the victim of bullying. His temper got him into trouble, usually when people teased or made fun of his learning difficulties. He tried hard at school and had what appeared to be a photographic memory. The problems he had were in making friends and socializing. At times he behaved inappropriately, but the teacher suggested that was due to his need for attention.

His boss at the service station said Willard was a hardworker, but became angry when a local woman called him a pervert and demanded another petrol attendant. The then eighteen-year-old responded by kicking in her car door.

On the night of the murder, Eileen Randall had been to the only cinema in town. Willard had shown interest in one of her friends, and Eileen told him to “rack off.” Witnesses said he responded by swearing at Eileen and telling her she was a stuck-up bitch. They all walked home, and a girlfriend thought Eileen was meeting a new “mystery” boy later that night, but didn’t know his name.

The melodramatics of adolescence read like a soap opera, Anya thought, sipping the sparkling Pinot noir. The miniature bubbles danced in her glass. At times, being an adult definitely had its advantages. She could drink alcohol inside, not on a street corner. Then again, at times life still played like a soap opera.

So Eileen Randall sneaked out without her parents knowing and was murdered that night.

Anya began laying out piles of documents on the sofa and floor. The PM photos had faded a little, but were still reasonable images. The upper body was streaked with multiple stab wounds, some deep and others superficial. Most of the wounds were inflicted pre-mortem. Just like in the Dorman murder.

The police had collected her clothes, which they described as damp. The girl’s jeans showed some blood splatters, but her feet were unmarked and clean.

Anya took mental note of that. Normally in a stabbing, unless the body is horizontal the whole time, blood drips onto the legs and feet.

There appeared to be little blood at the scene, although some may have soaked into the sand and been difficult to identify on photographs. Some hairs had adhered to her shirt, found later to be canine, not human.

Anya grabbed a pad and pen. “Wet clothes, clean feet,” she wrote. With the pen between her teeth, she searched for a weather report. Twenty-two degrees Celsius, with high-level humidity, winds of twenty to thirty knots.

Beneath the weather report was a photograph of Geoffrey Willard on arrest, holding both arms out. The front of his shirt was smeared with blood. His arms appeared free of injuries. There were no “stabber’s wounds,” left when the attacker’s hand slid over the handle of the knife and on to the blade. His hands were free of scratches and bruises as well. Eileen Randall may not have had the time nor the strength to fight Willard.

She flicked back to the PM report. Alf Carney had listed time of death as between one and two a.m., the time Willard was found with the body. The conclusion was based on stomach contents and the time of the last meal. Anya scribbled “time of death questionable,” and underlined it twice.

Time of death was one of the most misunderstood aspects of pathology and one of Anya’s pet annoyances. Former criteria such as analysis of stomach contents had long been proved inaccurate. Rates of digestion were so variable that it was a notoriously unreliable gauge.

Genital examination had found sperm in the vagina. The only tests available at the time found that the ejaculator had the blood-group O negative.

Anya took a closer look at some of the crime-scene photographs. Evidence on beaches could be difficult, thanks to the continuing tides. She’d occasionally thought that the best place to commit a murder was far out at sea, or, if on the beach, preferably during a storm.

She read through the organ systems on the PM report. Despite no saltwater in the larynx or lungs, Carney had found some in the pleural space between the lungs and ribs. He performed a Gettler test to determine chloride levels in the heart. The results showed there was no evidence of saltwater inhalation. Eileen Randall hadn’t been drowned, despite her clothing being so wet. At least Carney was thorough enough to check, she thought. Maybe the clothes were damp because of the high humidity that night. She wrote a question mark on the pad.

Flicking through the histology results on the back page, Anya noticed something she’d never seen before. Some kind of infestation, deemed crayfish larvae, was found in the pleural cavity.

She paused and performed a web search on her laptop. Crayfish larvae only lived in water. They were not found in the sand. Anya felt herself shiver. The tiny creatures had crawled in through the stab wounds. It was the only probable explanation. She would probably avoid eating crayfish from now on.

Tired, Anya wondered why the photo of a young Geoff Willard showed a relatively small blood smear on his shirt. If he’d stabbed Eileen Randall in excess of thirty times, why wasn’t he covered in splashes and spurts consistent with her injuries? More importantly, why hadn’t Carney’s pathology report commented on that?