Bloodborn (7 page)

“When blood rushes into the sac around the heart, it can’t escape. It constricts the heart and stops it from beating effectively. Pretty quickly the heart can’t supply blood to the body.”

“So that was the official cause of death—stab wound to the heart.” Wheeler was scribbling notes as they spoke.

“Whoever did this wasn’t messing around,” Kate said. “Anya, can I have a quick word?”

Jeff Sales had removed the heart and was placing it on the scales as Anya and the detective excused themselves.

In the corridor Kate spoke quietly. “I’ve just come from Giverny’s PM. It’s why I’m late.”

“Please tell me they found evidence of homicide.”

Kate stood, hands in her trouser pockets, and scuffed one shoe on the lino floor. “Unless you can confirm whether those facial hemorrhages were there
before
you started cardiac massage, there’s no way of proving she was murdered…Sorry, but I didn’t want you hearing this from anyone else.”

Anya swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “What about the paint in the garage?”

“Without a pathologist being able to confirm homicide, we can’t investigate the death. The coroner’s likely to come back with an open finding and we’re all hamstrung.”

“The Harbourns had a reason to stop her testifying.”

“Yeah, and the four with the best motive were in prison that day. The only better alibi would have been having breakfast with the police commissioner. Sure, anyone else in the family could have been at Giverny’s house, but we don’t even have enough for a search warrant. The most we’ve got is vandalism for the paint job and maybe trespass. But none of the neighbors saw a thing, and neither did Giverny’s father.”

Anya could barely believe what she was hearing. Giverny hadn’t just been raped, she had been tormented for the duration of the trial, and on the morning of the retrial had received a death threat. In blood red.

“What about the threat?” Anya raised her voice.
“Die Slut
isn’t just vandalism. It’s a direct threat to a key witness.”

A technician scurried past and the pair waited until he was out of sight.

Kate folded her arms. “Look. Unless we can prove she was murdered, that’s just a case of graffiti. I’m sorry, I know exactly how you feel.”

Anya doubted that. She felt ill in her stomach. What she felt was the erosive, gnawing ache of guilt and incompetence.

By trying—unsuccessfully—to resuscitate Giverny, she had effectively destroyed the crime scene. Her actions meant that the Harbourns wouldn’t just get away with gang rape, they’d probably get away with her murder too.

In bed that night, Anya’s mind fought sleep and she tossed about restlessly. As a distraction from her racing thoughts, she opted for some relaxation music on her iPod. But tonight, Mozart’s flute and harp concerto may as well have been screeching tires for all the good it did.

She sat up, switched to a podcast of a lecture on cranial nerves. The lecturer’s voice grated more than the topic.

Seeing the drum kit in the alcove of the room made her realize how much she had missed music on her trip.

She pulled on her cotton dressing-gown and headed for the stool, picking up a pair of drumsticks. She switched the iPod to a salsa rhythm, counted in and began playing along.

With the hi-hat locked to minimize noise, she gently accented the beat using her left foot. For some reason, coordinating her left hand with the snare drum and cymbals was a struggle. Even with the sound-dampening skin covers, it sounded like a cacophony.

She checked the grip. Palm facing up, stick between the middle and ring finger. Maybe it felt awkward because she was out of practice. Switching the music to “Rock and Roll High School” by the Ramones, she counted one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

By the fifth line she was out of time. She tried again and tightened the grip on both hands. The rhythm kept repeating through her arms and her body was beginning to perspire.

For once she didn’t care if the neighbor next door complained. The woman feigned deafness whenever Anya spoke to her, so the favor was about to be returned.

She unlocked the hi-hat, then began an improvised solo, accentuating every second beat with a hit to the snare or cymbal. At first softly, then louder as sweat moistened the hair on the back of her neck, and her fingers.

Crash, bang, roll, crash. Anger released with every downward movement.

The right foot pounded on the kick drum pedal as her arms raised higher between beats, accelerating the rate and increasing volume to culminate in a prolonged drum roll, finishing with frenzied assaults on the snare, base drum and crash cymbal.

The sound left her ears ringing.

When the pounding of her heart slowed, she slid off the stool onto the floor, puffing from shortness of breath.

Damn it! Why couldn’t she remember what Giverny had looked like when she found her? She’d pictured the girl’s face so many times, she was more confused than ever.

Both hands were in a tremor when she finally relaxed her grip on the drumsticks.

At 8
A.M.
Anya cleared security and met
Hayden Richards in the foyer of the department of public prosecutions.

“How’s the cough?” he asked.

“Nearly gone.” The chest infection had improved quickly. Maybe Indian food was more therapeutic than she had thought. If she looked tired, it was for another reason.

“Do you know what Natasha wants to meet about?” She turned the focus back to work.

Hayden shrugged. “We’re about to find out.”

The prosecutor exited a lift and headed straight for them. “I’ll take you upstairs,” she said, barely looking at Anya. Judging by the crinkled shirt and pencil skirt, she had already been at her desk a while.

On the twenty-seventh floor she led them through a maze of desks with files piled high, stacks spreading onto the floor. The lawyers who chose to work here obviously had a massive workload. Compared to their defense and private practice colleagues, they were grossly underpaid. Phones rang unanswered as staff hurried to deliver files or took notes on their own calls.

They arrived at Natasha’s office; surprisingly the desk was clear, despite every bench and shelf being filled with folders tied with ribbon. The only human touches were an apple and knife on a plate and a photo of a group of smiling bushwalkers on the windowsill.

“Take a seat.”

The visitors did as directed. Natasha seemed in no mood for polite conversation.

“I’ve seen the Hart PM report. Death by asphyxiation, due to a ligature. Nothing about homicide, signs of a struggle or interference by a third party. In other words, we’ve got
nothing.
Can someone please explain that to me?”

Hayden glanced at Anya. “Well, as far as I could tell, there were no defense injuries or bruising that might suggest she fought anyone.”

“What about the finger underneath the cord? Doesn’t that tell us she tried to get the noose off?”

Anya sat straighter in the seat. “It’s possible she could have tried to hang herself, then changed her mind. It does happen.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No,” Anya snapped. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. If you’re asking me to stand up in court and deny the possibility, then I can’t.”

The lawyer sat glaring at Anya and drummed her fingers on the desk. “All right then, can you exclude the possibility that she was murdered and the killer staged the scene to look like a suicide?”

“I can’t exclude that possibility.” Anya chose her words as carefully as she would on the stand in court.

Hayden cleared his throat. “We have motive but not opportunity. We’ve gone through the calls the Harbourns made from prison, but they’re all to family. As to the whereabouts of the other siblings, they all say the whole family was together all night and all morning. So far nothing we’ve found can break that alibi. We don’t even know when the car and garage were painted.”

Natasha stopped drumming. “If it’s a two-car garage, why didn’t the father see it when he drove off to pick up his ex-wife?”

“The garage door is clunky and he wanted Giverny to sleep as late as possible, so he left his car out in the street the night before,” Hayden explained.

“Did forensics go over the garage? What about fingerprints, footprints, anything?”

“There weren’t any prints left behind on the Morris Minor, or anywhere in the garage. Whoever did it must have used gloves. If any of the Harbourns was there, they didn’t leave us much.”

“I want you to check speed cameras in the area, see if anyone was caught near the Hart house the night before or that morning. Check en route to the Harbourns’ place as well. And petrol stations. Go over video loops in case one of them filled up a vehicle. The brothers in custody had a lot to lose if they were convicted of gang rape. With the new laws, they were each facing a possible life sentence for the abduction and gang rape.”

With a spate of highly publicized group assaults, the state government had legislated for mandatory maximum sentences for anyone involved in group rape. So far, multiple male gangs had been convicted. The guilty comprised various ethnicities and social backgrounds. Of course, the media only highlighted cases reflecting racial tensions, but the problem was not limited to one definable group. Far more victims presented to Anya’s unit than the number who made police statements. Violence from the “pack mentality” had been rapidly escalating; whether that was a product of young males and boredom, poor socioeconomic circumstances or a disturbing societal trend wasn’t understood.

Natasha turned her attention to Anya. “I want you to think back carefully. Is there a chance you might not recall the hemorrhages to the face because you were ill that day and suffering from a fever?”

Hayden shot her a glance. Is that why he had asked about her health? She’d assumed he actually cared. Damn him. Her grip on the armrests tightened.

“If you’re suggesting my judgment was clouded because of a temperature, you’re mistaken. My priority was to save that girl’s life. If I’d succeeded, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“We all agree on that.” Natasha’s tone was still accusatory. “What I’m saying is that if you have a chance to review your initial police statement while well and temperature-free, is there anything you would like to correct? No one would blame you for making a minor error if you were sick.”

Anya hoped Natasha wasn’t trying to coerce her into changing her statement. Her knuckles whitened with the grip. “You aren’t suggesting I lie?”

“No, but if you recall Giverny Hart’s face having even a few tiny red marks on it, now would be an appropriate time to say so.”

Anya felt tightness in her chest. She looked over at Hayden. “Are you involved in this ambush too?”

Hayden shook his head. “Definitely not. With all respect, Natasha, you’re treading a very thin line here. This could be seen as coercing a witness, and I’m prepared to state that—on the record.”

The prosecutor slapped the desk. “Don’t threaten me. If you people had done your jobs better, Giverny Hart would be alive and those raping bastards would be behind bars for the rest of their natural lives.”

Anya stood, no longer able to control her temper.

“I wish I could tell you exactly what you want to hear to make your case, but I can’t. I don’t remember. All I see is the cord around her neck. Her head was warm—I can tell you that because I cradled her when we struggled to cut the cable loose. I can tell you what her mouth tasted like when I tried to breathe air into her lungs. It was mint flavored, like toothpaste.”

Hayden reached a hand out. Natasha was now on her feet, but Anya hadn’t finished.

“And I can tell you what it felt like when one of her ribs cracked under the heel of my hand. And would you like to hear about the guttural howl her father made when I told him his child was dead?” Anya caught her breath and realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.

She looked at Natasha. She, too, was teary.

Hayden sat with an arm outstretched toward each woman. “I think we should take a minute…and sit back down.” He cleared his throat and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Instead of handing it to either woman, he rubbed it backward and forward across both eyes and the tip of his nose.

Anya sat down silently and the prosecutor followed.

“I’m sorry, Anya. This isn’t a witch-hunt and I never wanted to compromise you. I know how hard you tried to save Giverny. You meant a lot to her.”

“It’s common for sexual assault victims to feel close to their doctor” was all Anya could think of to say.

“Right then. If there is nothing to prove Giverny was murdered, I want to reinstate the sexual assault charges, but not yet. We’re better off waiting until we have an iron-clad case because we only get one shot at them for the gang rape. That’s why the charges were dropped for the time being. But to nail the Harbourns I’ll need help from both of you.”

Hayden turned to Anya for her response. Without the key witness, the case was weak and only hearsay. But at that moment there felt like no other option. “Apology accepted. What do you need me to do?”

After a welcome-back morning tea at
the sexual assault unit, Anya retreated to her office. With so few doctors qualified and willing to be on call, taking leave became an accepted necessity. Despite absences increasing the load for the others, the knowledge and experience doctors brought back from overseas study and casework benefitted them all.

Anya settled in and began checking files from a year or more ago. She remembered a young woman who had presented for an examination and morning-after pill. At the time she had refused to make a police statement and was quiet about the details of the assault. She did, however, let it slip that a group of brothers had “taken turns” forcing her to have sex. One of them had been her boyfriend at the time.

That was the detail that had stuck in Anya’s mind. She suspected that if brothers attacked one of their girlfriends, it was highly likely they had raped other women.

How many months since she had presented? Months blurred together in Anya’s mind. She searched file after file, trying to recall specifics about the case. There had to be a good chance it was the Harbourns involved. There could not be too many sets of brothers raping women, or so Anya hoped.

Natasha Ryder had asked for help identifying any other cases that were “similar pattern” evidence. If she could find another of their victims to testify against the Harbourn brothers, the prosecutor could present a pattern of assaults, thereby strengthening the case against them. Giverny at least deserved that much.

Mary Singer brought a coffee into the physician’s office, edging past a chair to deliver it. Rapidly running out of room in the unit, highest priority were more fridges in which to keep forensic specimens. Often victims chose not to make a police statement immediately following the assault, but had the option to do so later on. Sometimes that meant storing evidence for prolonged periods.

Office areas didn’t rate improvement, especially when they required funding to do so. Anya didn’t really mind. The room was too small for drop-in visitors and no one stayed longer than they had to. Most importantly, the door could be locked so she could work without interruption. As part-time director, hours in the office were limited.

The counselor leaned against the desk, a bench that ran the length of the narrow room. A filing cabinet in the corner filled the space quota after the two chairs. A pile of files lay on the floor, under the desk.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been asked to do an audit?”

“No, but I could while I’m at it. I’m trying to find a case file but can’t remember when the woman presented.”

“Can I help?”

“A young woman, raped by her boyfriend and his brothers.”

“That sounds familiar. Have you checked the rosters for when you were on?”

Anya leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. “That’s the problem. I was on just about all the time between the others taking long service leave or maternity leave.

“How about what she looked like?”

“Short, thin, long dark hair. She had a pierced eyebrow but didn’t say much.” It was much easier to remember those details than names because each examination took at least an hour to complete. It wasn’t easy to forget the person.

Mary stared at the floor. “Halloween.”

Anya looked up. “Pardon?”

“Halloween. Try end of October. I remember thinking the girl was dressed as if she’d been to a Halloween party. All black clothes and pale face. Is she the one?”

Mary was right. The woman had been dressed in black and had dark lips, giving her a gothic appearance. Anya flipped through the files to October/November. Nothing.

Then she checked October the year before. Relief filled her as she lifted out the folder.

“Got it! Thanks.”

Mary stood to leave. “I suppose you know that Giverny’s funeral is tomorrow. I’ll be going if you’d like a lift.”

Anya did know and was unsure whether to attend. She had no idea whether the Harts would appreciate her being there, or her presence would only upset them more.

“I’ll see how tomorrow turns out. I could be caught up, and I am still on call for the unit.”

Mary glanced over her half-glasses. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me. It’s worth remembering that carers need looking after too.”

Anya was already absorbed in the file and flipped to her summary. “Appreciate the coffee,” she managed as Mary closed the door behind her.

Nineteen-year-old Violet Yardley had presented on 30 October. As was Anya’s habit, notes of the conversation were scant, in order to protect the victim. If the assault ever came to court, even a minor difference between what Anya had documented and wording in a police statement could be used by a defense lawyer to discredit the victim.

She checked the address. The suburb wasn’t far. Turning back to her laptop, she pulled up the Whitepages website. The address existed, listed under a W and P Yardley. Anya dialed the number.

A middle-aged woman with what sounded like an Italian accent answered.

“Hello, I’m hoping to contact Violet Yardley.”

The woman readily explained that her daughter was working at a shelter, packing boxes of food. When asked if it was possible to meet Violet there, the mother didn’t hesitate to provide the charity’s address.

It always disturbed Anya how much information people naively gave away over the phone, especially to a female caller. The majority of people still trusted, which was why scams and credit card theft were relatively easy to commit.

The inner-city area had little parking, so Anya hailed a taxi from outside the hospital. Within minutes she was at an old warehouse. A rollerdoor was raised in front of a sign marked
Deliveries only. No Parking.
Inside, a number of people filled boxes with tins of food and fresh produce that had been piled onto trestle tables.

Violet seemed thinner and more gaunt than before. The eyebrow piercing was gone, but her jumper and long jeans were still black. The young woman looked up and stopped loading a box when she saw her visitor.

“I’m taking a break,” she called to no one in particular, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from her bag on her way toward the open door.

Anya followed her outside. “I don’t know if you remember—”

“How am I supposed to forget?” She lit a match and struggled to light the cigarette in the breeze. Anya cupped her hands to shelter the small flame.

The young woman nodded in gratitude and inhaled. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“That’s understandable. I hope you don’t mind, but I rang your home and a lady told me you were here.”

Crossing one arm across her waist, she supported her smoking arm. “My mother thinks I should bring more friends home, so she would have been happy that anyone phoned for me.”

Anya smiled. “Mums care. It’s their job. Which partly explains why I’m here. You didn’t come back to the unit and I wanted to see that you were okay.”

Violet exhaled out the side of her mouth and watched the traffic. “What can I say? Life goes on.”

A table-top truck pulled up, beeping as it reversed into the warehouse doorway.

“That’s the leftover veg from the co-op,” Violet said, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette on a metal bin by the entrance. “We do food parcels for the homeless and pensioners around here who can’t afford to pay exploitative supermarket prices.”

“Before you go…” Anya managed. “Please understand this is all still confidential, but there’s an important reason I’m asking—were the men responsible for what happened to you that night named Harbourn?”

The young woman folded her arms and bit her bottom lip.

“I never told you that.” Violet searched Anya’s face for an answer. “How did you know?”

Anya felt a rush of hope. They could have another case to answer for. “Because you’re not the only one they’ve done this to.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, my life’s moved on.”

Anya handed over a card, which the woman reluctantly took and stuck in the back of her jeans.

“I know this isn’t easy, but it’s not too late to give a police statement if you decide you want to. The samples I took that night are still in the unit if you change your mind.

“Give me one good reason.”

“One of the girls they raped is now dead. The police think they could have killed her.”

Violet’s eyes flared. “That’s bullshit. I chose to go to their house. We all got drunk that night. They might have taken turns with me after Ricky and I had sex, but that was it. There’s no way the Harbourns are killers. God, Rick was the nicest guy I’ve ever known.”

The young woman pushed past the volunteers unpacking the truck and quickly disappeared inside.

In disbelief, Anya walked back to the nearest intersection.

Almost a year and a half later, a woman who had been raped by a number of men could defend one of them as a nice man. Violet Yardley sounded as if she blamed herself for the assaults, never mind the unforgivable betrayal by her boyfriend. The woman was in complete denial.

If she stayed that way, there was little anyone could do to ensure her attackers didn’t rape again.