Without Consent (17 page)

“For God’s sake, you’re withholding evidence
in a major crime investigation.”

“Keep your voice down,” Veronica Slater snapped as she went through the final security gate. “It came with a love letter from the girl.”

Anya felt her temples pulse faster. “Like hell it did! The police should know he’s got the picture.”

“Well, neither of us is in a position to say anything. What happened in there just then was privileged. You go shooting your mouth off to your police buddies and no lawyer is ever going to hire you to consult again.”

Anya wanted to slam Veronica against the wall of the admin building. “How dare you? He didn’t show me the photo in a medical consultation.”

Veronica didn’t waver or let on if she felt intimidated by Anya’s anger. Instead, she seemed to feed on it.

“In a way, he did. You were there to assess him and he showed you his fantasy girl. Even told you how she liked him. That’s sounding pretty delusional to me, which is, if you recall, a medical term.”

“This isn’t about semantics. He has a photo of a rape victim, and he’s under suspicion for committing that crime. It ties him to the victim.”

“Grow up, we’re not in Kansas, Dorothy.”

The lawyer scratched the path with her heels as she opened the door to the admin building. Sarcasm only made her more repugnant, Anya thought—if that was possible.

“The moment he gets bail, the police find out.”

The door closed and Veronica turned. “He’s already been denied bail. But he swears he got that photo from the girl and I believe him. We all know psychos have made false rape accusations before. Maybe she’s a complete nutter. Ever thought of that? Otherwise, it’s easy to argue that anyone could have sent him the photo. Maybe he’s being set up? Wouldn’t be the first time the police have tried to stitch up one of my clients.”

Anya leaned on the door. “Don’t play the victim, Veronica, it doesn’t suit you. How many of your female colleagues have you bitten the heads off in your career?”

The lawyer smiled and shook her head. “Resorting to personal attacks now your cognitive arguments have failed you? You’ve just proved how jealous you are. It’s my
intimate
relationship with Dan. That’s what all this is about.”

Anya felt the rash on her neck rise. “You’re the one who’s delusional now.”

Some of the visitors began to appear along the path. The two of them stopped talking long enough to collect their possessions stored in the lockers inside and sign out.

Anya was annoyed that she’d resorted to personal comments, but she could never think up good comebacks on the spot. One would probably come to her at four o’clock the next morning.

The press were still hanging around and Veronica was in full melodramatic mode. “I’m worried for the mental health of my client, who is having trouble understanding why the police have arrested him again.”

Anya felt nauseated at the public performance and wanted nothing more to do with it. She headed toward her car, with a lot less respect for Dan Brody. Fingers shaking from anger, she fumbled with the keys in her lock.

She dropped the keys and bent down to see a pair of red stiletto heels approach. She stood up, bracing herself for another fight.

“We haven’t finished. I still want that report on the Randall murder. All the inconsistencies you came up with.”

“Fine. You’ll have it. But I can tell you now, if you want me to appear in court, what I say may not be so favorable to Willard.”

Veronica swung her briefcase like a schoolgirl and smiled—again. “I thought as much. That’s why I wanted you on this case.”

Anya didn’t understand. Veronica just smiled wider.

“Let me explain it to you. I knew you’d come up with something to criticize Alf Carney’s PM. We all know he’s been a joke for years. With you working for the defense, the prosecution won’t want to touch you. They’ll know what evidence you’ve come up with to cast doubt on Willard’s conviction, which would ruin their similar-pattern-evidence prosecution.”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve done the examinations on all the assault victims.”

Veronica stepped closer. “We all know that the medical examination in a rape case has very little to do with the outcome. In fact, it’s almost insignificant. Besides, there are always experts like Lyndsay Gatlow who are happy to give an opinion on the evidence if required.”

Jesus!
Veronica had nobbled her. She wanted her blocked from testifying for the prosecution and had set her up. Anya had done everything Veronica had planned, and more.

Veronica took advantage of Anya’s stunned silence.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already told one of your police mates about the discrepancies in the Randall murder, so they already know you’re casting doubt on Willard’s conviction. Looks like you’re not testifying for either side now.”

Anya clenched her teeth, grinding them. “Get away from me before I do something I may not regret.” She unlocked her car, got in and started the engine. The vision of Veronica’s smug expression haunted her as she sped out of the car park.

Morgan Tully, the state coroner, rocked
back and forward in her leather chair. Peter Latham sat, elbows on the chair arms, index fingers meeting at his beard. Anya filled a glass of water for a distraction. She thought she could hear her carotid arteries pounding. If it hadn’t been for Morgan Tully, Anya would have been somewhere else. Anywhere but in that conference room.

Directly opposite Morgan, Dr. Seth Myer, head of the College of Pathologists, folded his arms and kept checking the clock on the wall. The empty chair at the head of the table had been reserved for Alf Carney. No one, it seemed, had wanted this day to come. A representative from the Medical Complaints Tribunal, a lawyer, was allocated the task of taking notes and serving as a witness to what was about to transpire.

“From everything I’ve seen,” Seth Myer said, “he’s using papers that are twenty years old to corroborate his findings. He’s either sorely out of touch or he’s committing perjury every time he testifies. He just selects studies that back his claims and refuses to admit that other possibilities exist.”

“In some of the cases I’ve reviewed,” Anya added, “instead of referring to texts, he quotes his own previous autopsies as validation.”

The room went silent.

“Peter, do you have anything else to contribute?” Morgan Tully asked.

Peter Latham pushed his chair back, as if about to leave. “There’s not much left to say.”

“So we all appear to be in agreement,” Morgan said. “If he won’t retire, things could get rather unpleasant for him. As it is, we face countless reopening of cases and reviews of convictions.” She readjusted her scarf so the knot sat asymmetrically to the right.

Peter Latham hadn’t moved. Anya felt guilty at being the one chosen to review Alf’s decisions and wondered who else in the room saw her as the Judas Iscariot of pathologists.

Morgan glanced at Anya as if reading her mind. “Doctor Carney needs to realize that this hasn’t been a witch hunt, but a systematic review of countless cases he was responsible for. I’ve had pathologists in other states reviewing a dozen more cases selected at random, and their findings are pretty consistent.”

A tap on the door broke the tension. Alf Carney appeared, with a leather portfolio under one arm. Despite a dark charcoal suit and College tie, he looked unsure of himself.

Morgan stood up and checked her watch.

“We weren’t expecting you for another half-hour,” she said.

“I want this on my terms, not yours.”

The coroner indicated where she would like him to sit. He was already perspiring and barely acknowledged the others in the room other than with a quick scan.

Anya had wanted to leave by the time he arrived, but was now caught in the room. She studied his face. It appeared bloated and he looked like he hadn’t slept for days. For the first time she could remember, he wore polished black leather shoes instead of suede lace-ups. He’d taken today very seriously. He sat slowly, unbuttoning his jacket.

“Before you speak,” he croaked, then cleared his throat, “I’d like to say a few words.”

“By all means,” Morgan said.

He pulled out a number of pages from his portfolio and donned a pair of half-lens glasses from his pocket.

“I understand that in the last few months there have been numerous inquiries about my work over the last thirty-five years. It disappoints me that I had to hear about this from the medical grapevine, not from my most trusted and respected colleagues.”

Peter Latham didn’t move.

“With more litigious criminals, a glut of lawyers and a media ready to lynch anyone for the slightest perception of wrongdoing, I accept that someone who has been involved in some of the nation’s highest-profile cases would come under scrutiny. It’s not the first time.” He took a deep breath. “However, this appears to be motivated by something more personal, something deeper than defense lawyers appealing for their clients. It is saddening to learn that colleagues who have worked alongside me have, at the same time, been undermining my authority and accusing me of the worst failing in the medical profession—negligence.”

Morgan Tully interrupted. “We’re not at the Salem trials. You’re not invited here to defend accusations, Doctor Carney. Please understand that we all have your best interests at heart today.”

For the first time, Peter Latham spoke. “We’re all subject to peer review and quality assurance. None of us is immune, nor should we be. We may not be advocates for living patients, but we nonetheless need to ensure that we adhere to uniform standards.”

Alf Carney removed his glasses. “Let’s talk about professional standards, shall we? When I was a family doctor in country Victoria, there wasn’t anyone within a five-hundred-kilometer radius who would do police forensic work. Not a single member of
our
noble profession would help. When a young girl was raped and murdered in the middle of nowhere, the police had nothing without a post-mortem. Stupid me did it out of a sense of duty. Next thing I know, my practice is suffering because I’m suddenly the police surgeon, district pathologist and anything else the community needed. I took on a role nobody else wanted.”

He directed his comments toward all four in the room. “Pathology wasn’t fashionable, not like today. It was like some macabre secret society that voters didn’t need or want to know about.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “People didn’t even want you round to dinner any more.”

Morgan Tully remained businesslike. “We’re not here to discuss how you entered the field. We’re concerned with current scientific practice.”

Carney’s face flushed, highlighting the number of sun-spots on his ruddy complexion. The veins in his neck distended.

“As the country doctor, I helped retrieve bodies. Kids I’d known half their lives pulled from wrecks or mangled by farm machinery.”

He pointed to his breast-bone with both hands and spoke through almost clenched teeth. The emotion and pain he couldn’t hide made Anya want to rush out of the room. The man’s career was over, and he knew it.

“
I
was the one who had to try to resuscitate the fractured bodies, then break the news to the family. Then
I
had to do the stinking autopsy as well. There was no technician to help out with the dirty work, no one to share on-call with. No one to discuss cases with. No such thing as debriefing and no one to ask how I felt after the funerals.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “So don’t lecture me about standards. I worked my tail off to study as much as I could to deliver the best bloody service I was capable of. Where were the College members when I needed support or time off? Sitting on their shiny arses in the cities.”

Seth Myer shifted. “We all did it tough back then. But times have changed and we’ve had to move with them. Everything we do has to be scientifically validated. We’re more answerable than ever before.”

“So that’s it,” Carney said. “I’m too old so I’m being hung out to dry. Clean out all the old fools and make way for the new.”

“That’s not it.” Peter Latham broke his silence. “No one disputes that you’ve been an outstanding provider of desperately needed services. But ongoing education is essential, and there is some concern that you may not be applying current best practice.”

“I thought better of you than this.” Carney stood. “Don’t bother saying what you’d planned. I’ll save you the trouble.” He pulled an envelope from his portfolio and slid it across the desk.

“It’s a copy of my resignation. And if anyone tries to sully my reputation, I’ll have you for defamation or libel faster than you can snap your fingers.”

He walked toward the door, head held high and shoulders back. He was going out with dignity, if nothing else.

Morgan Tully stood first once he’d gone. “Anyone for lunch? I’ve got an inquest resuming at two.” She behaved as though nothing had happened.

Peter Latham hurried out the door without speaking.

Anya collected her papers and felt a knot in her chest. It was so easy to criticize someone else’s work with the benefit of hindsight. She wondered if one day it could be her being accused of medical negligence. For the first time, she felt great pity for Alf Carney.

Being right wasn’t any consolation.

Tired and frustrated by the events of
the past two days, Anya didn’t feel like a confrontation at police headquarters, but Hayden Richards had told her it was important that they meet. Thankfully, Meira Sorrenti had already left for the day and the other detectives had better things to do. No one took any notice of her as Hayden escorted her through security.

Once inside the office, he offered her a chair near his paper-covered desk. “I really need to talk to you about the Dorman murder. Willard’s mother says the shirt that had the DNA on it hadn’t been worn yet. She’d washed and ironed it, but he’d never put it on.”

“And you believe a mother?”

“No, listen. I rang the lab this afternoon. The shirts were taken after crime scene used luminol at the home. They found traces of Liz Dorman’s blood on not one but two of his shirts.” He handed her a faxed report and trotted off to make coffees.

Maybe Geoffrey had taken a change of clothes and got some from his skin on the second shirt. Anya twice read the comments on the page. These traces were small smears, nothing like you would expect for such a blood-spattered scene.

From the amount of blood at the Dorman house, the shirt should have been saturated, or at least covered in splatters. The small amount of blood on Willard’s shirt at the site of the Randall murder bothered her more than the tide discrepancies. The similarities between the cases became more odd.

Maybe Willard had had an accomplice if he did kill Liz Dorman. When the detective returned, she raised the possibility of a second attacker. “When Gloria Havelock was raped, there were two men there.”

“Yeah, the dead one and Captain Moron.”

A cup with the remnants of someone else’s lipstick faced her along with two plain biscuits. Anya turned the cup around and drank with her left hand. She could taste unrinsed dishwashing liquid on the rim.

“When they robbed her, they took wallet-sized photos of her daughters. Did they ever turn up?” Anya asked carefully.

“Not that I know of. The officers did a search of Captain Moron’s cell yesterday and didn’t find anything apart from tennis magazines.” Anticipating his guest’s next question, he explained. “Girls, mini skirts. It’s the closest thing to porn Lee could get. Sorrenti went over there to interview him and got nowhere. The little bastard wouldn’t talk. Kept saying he’d answer one question for every time she showed him her tits.”

As much as Sorrenti grated on Anya, she shouldn’t have had to put up with that.

“Does the guy still have his gonads?”

Hayden laughed. “Only just. Sorrenti was incredibly ticked off. She didn’t get anything out of him.”

“Willard was in jail when Gloria was raped, but don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that her daughter was attacked in their house once he got out?”

Hayden crunched on a biscuit, trapping crumbs in his moustache. “You know the stats: just about every woman I know has had to deal with a pervert some time. The girl’s kind, pretty and would automatically turn heads.”

Anya knew that the detective hadn’t meant to implicate Melanie in her assault, but he was right. All it took was one sexual deviant to notice her.

Anya needed to find out how Willard had got that photo, without letting on that Willard had it. As galling as it was, Veronica had her rattled. Telling the police about Melanie’s photo could breach confidentiality, in which case Veronica would make sure everyone heard about it. Perhaps there was a chance Hayden would work it out himself. It was pretty clear in Anya’s mind that Melanie would never have sent it with a love letter. But in a world of dysfunctional people, bizarre things happened.

“Was Willard ever in prison with Gideon Lee?”

“Don’t think so. Lee’s been in Goulburn jail, Willard served at Long Bay.”

“Could Geoff have had contact at any stage with Lee’s dead partner?”

Hayden looked confused. “Unlikely. Willard was incarcerated for a long time. Am I missing something?”

“No. I’d like a link between Melanie and Gloria’s attackers, that’s all. It still doesn’t sit right that they were both random victims.”

Hayden shrugged. “How do you explain the shirt results?”

Anya decided not to pursue the issue of Melanie’s photo—for now. The DNA evidence needed to be discussed.

“The small amounts of blood on the clothing don’t make sense. Maybe Willard, or someone else, threw out the really blood-stained shirt and accidentally got blood on his other clothes.”

Hayden bumped the desk with an elbow and nearly spilt his drink. “I was thinking more about the chances of contamination in the lab. To the naked eye, the clothes were clean when we picked them up.”

“So they’d both been washed?”

“Yep,” he said, breaking his diet and munching on two more biscuits. “Luminol showed up the stains again at the lab, which is why they were tested properly.”

The detective flicked through the papers on his desk, pulled out some photos and handed them across. “We had his cousin under surveillance when Willard was on the run. This character’s a bit smooth for my liking, and he’s got an answer for everything. He lives at the house and could have been an accessory after the fact.” He cleaned his moustache with the back of his hand. “Fancy a little trip out there for a chat?”

Anya wondered if that were appropriate. “I thought priests were the only ones who popped round for visits just in time for dinner.”

“It’s when the punters are most likely to be home.”

Hayden had obviously planned that she would go along. “Aren’t you risking trouble if you keep investigating without Sorrenti’s permission?”

He put down his half-full cup and collected the papers into a pile before locking them in his desk drawer. “The investigation only begins with the arrest. That’s when the fun starts, trying to put together the brief. That’s all I’m doing, nothing more, nothing less. A woman might have better luck with the cousin.”

“You mean I’m a distraction to get him to let his guard down?”

“Doc, you are a looker, and it might just work.”

Anya opened her mouth wide, not sure if he were serious or joking. Going by the grin on his face, he was joking. She hoped.

She felt like a hanger-on, but what Veronica Slater had orchestrated made her more determined to find out what had really happened to Eileen Randall and Liz Dorman. She wondered if her criticism of the Randall autopsy results would lead to a guilty man getting away with Liz Dorman’s murder.

Maybe she was no different from Alf Carney after all. She tried to block the thought from her mind.