Without Consent (2 page)

Dr. Anya Crichton detested work-related
functions, especially ones that raised money and profiles. Milling around making small talk with people you barely knew—what worse way could you waste an evening? She silently cursed the “social” committees who deemed it part of every job to mix with colleagues on pseudo-social occasions. They should cut out the pretense and just leave a jar in the office for donations.

If she were being completely honest, the real reason she disliked these functions was that they made her feel completely inadequate. Just like she did when she picked up Ben, her four-year-old son, from preschool, and had to chat to the other mothers. Giving birth didn’t automatically bond you with every other mother, a fact few women seemed to appreciate.

She also had to admit that being seen by colleagues was good public relations for her private consulting business. And it never hurt to stay in touch with the politics of forensic pathology as much as the knowledge base.

Glancing around her side of the room, she wondered what she could chat about with someone who played golf, attended overseas conferences and whose children left home years ago. Unfortunately, that covered most of the people there.

After an acrimonious divorce, seeing her son every second weekend meant that overseas trips were out of the question unless paid for by a client. She wasn’t going to rely on that ever happening. Having left the public pathology system, she no longer had the security of sick leave, paid holidays or study leave. And definitely no access to conference funds. She was saving every spare dollar to challenge her former husband for shared custody of their only child. Private forensic medicine was nowhere near as profitable as she had hoped.

The other side of the foyer comprised the usual advocates for victims of crime. A local politician, social workers, psychologists and families who had been devastated by crime all stood uncomfortably in a group herded together by Bob Reynolds. Bob had campaigned for victim recognition for over twenty-five years and was widely acknowledged as an expert in sentencing law. He was also Anya’s father.

She sipped her Verdelho and played with the condensation on the glass, glancing around the room for an ally. The deputy coroner had just legalized his second, or maybe third, marriage. Secretaries fawned over the new wife’s bauble as the men exchanged not-so-humorous anecdotes and laughed louder than the jokes deserved.

Forced to maneuver past a raucous raconteur, she relaxed when she spied Peter Latham, her mentor and friend. Headed for sanctuary, she slowed as she noticed that Peter was involved in what looked like a serious and very intense conversation with another pathologist, Alf Carney. The current directors of the state’s leading forensic centers stood with their heads close together. Aware that Peter Latham had known Carney a long time, Anya was still surprised to see them so involved in such a private discussion.

She didn’t notice her secretary sidle up.

“Sorry I’m late. The phones went crazy just as I was about to lock up.” Elaine Morton pulled a compact from her bag and checked her face. Her newly permed and set hair smelt like ammonia. “Nothing that can’t wait. How do I look?” She preened odd strands from her forehead. “Oh, and Dan Brody wants you to call him tomorrow.”

“Fine. You look fine.” Anya couldn’t avoid noticing the musk perfume, a sure sign that Elaine had smoked on the way. “What did he want?”

Elaine licked her teeth and grinned. “Your opinion on some case he’s involved with.”

Anya took a breath. She hadn’t spoken to the high-profile defense barrister for months. The previous year he had been the only one sending her work, which had kept her business afloat and meant she could pay alimony to her ex-husband while paying off the mortgage on her home and office. Then her world had almost crumbled when Kate Farrer, a homicide detective and close friend, was kidnapped and both their lives were threatened.

After that, Kate had gone on long-service leave and Dan had lost touch. Anya’s professional name had been poison for a while, with whispers that lawyers feared her forensic evidence would be tainted because of media interest in her past. Luckily, a job as acting director at a sexual-assault unit meant that she was at least able to maintain her income and slowly rebuild her reputation.

By the time cases she was now involved with came to trial, there would be no doubt that she was still one of the most qualified and experienced forensic physicians in the country. No court could tarnish that, or so Anya hoped.

“Looks like Brody’s grown up and come to his senses.” Elaine snapped closed the compact mirror. She’d spotted Peter Latham and headed straight over. A middle-aged woman on the prowl had no qualms interrupting secret men’s business, Anya thought. She watched with anticipation as to how Peter would handle the situation. Married more to his work than his wife, she’d never seen him flirt until he had met Elaine. As innocent as it seemed, Elaine had developed an almost adolescent interest in any meeting Peter was likely to attend, and the new hairdo was obviously for his benefit.

Anya thought about what her secretary had said about Brody. If she were honest, she missed the banter and arguments about ethics versus the law. The last time she saw him he had brought champagne. Instead of accepting his dinner invitation, Anya had rushed off to see Ben and her ex-husband. Dan hadn’t rung her about work—or anything else—since.

The chief coroner, Morgan Tully, excused herself from a zealous police sergeant and lifted a hand to Anya. In her late forties, she could accessorize classic suits with a scarf or necklace and look like she’d been dressed for a fashion magazine. The tastefully cropped silver hair drew attention straight to Morgan’s large green made-up eyes.

“Do you find these things as boring as I do? The old boys’ network in full swing?”

Anya mused, “Agony would be a better description.”

A master of discretion, Morgan Tully spoke softly. “I’m glad you came tonight. I wanted to see how you were. The fiasco in the papers a while back about you and your family was appalling.” Laying a hand on Anya’s shoulder, she lowered her voice further. “I tried to call you to offer support, but your secretary said you’d taken some time off.”

The weekend of Kate Farrer’s kidnapping, a hatchet-style article in the country’s biggest-selling newspaper had implied that Anya had helped her husband escape a murder charge in England. The journalist even suggested that Anya might have been involved in the abduction of her sister, who disappeared at the age of three. At the time, Anya was a mere five years old. The savagery of the article almost cost her access to her own child.

It had taken a lot of time and effort since then to convince her ex-husband that her work would no longer compromise their son.

“Couldn’t imagine any sane lawyer employing me as an expert witness, so I spent some time with my son down on the south coast.” Anya sipped her wine. “Turns out, I was right.”

“The article was outrageous and we all knew it. Just like all supposed scandals, everyone forgot about it when we found out about another politician who got caught with his mistress milking taxpayer funds.” Morgan lifted a mineral water from a passing waiter’s tray. “I’ve always had a lot of respect for your work, you know. So much so, I wanted to talk to you about a rather sensitive matter.” She motioned toward a leather lounge adjacent to a large indoor plant just inside the entrance. It was the most privacy anyone could expect in a crowded foyer.

The pair sat down and Morgan Tully began.

“I would appreciate your help on what really could be a political time-bomb. It’s come to my attention that one of your colleagues has made some, shall we say, controversial decisions, and I’d like you to review some of the cases. I don’t know if I’m over-reaching with my lack of expertise in your field, but I have questions about some of his findings that perhaps you could answer.”

Anya nodded. “How many cases are we talking about?”

The chief coroner frowned. “I’m not really sure. I’d like you to look at a dozen to start with.” She poured the mineral water into the wilting pot plant. “I don’t want this to look like a witch-hunt, which is why I would like it to stay just between us for now. And I don’t expect this to be pro bono.”

Anya knew she could use the extra income. Twelve case-reports were the equivalent of about three weeks’ work. “Fine, but why me? Why not someone like Peter Latham?”

Morgan looked around, presumably to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “For a couple of reasons. You’re the only fully independent forensic pathologist in the state, so you’re removed from the lockerroom talk within the departments. And if we’re being honest, because you’re a woman.”

She seemed to anticipate Anya’s offense at that comment. “This isn’t an affirmative-action thing. I thought about Peter, but unfortunately he’s part of the problem.”

Anya couldn’t believe what the coroner was saying. “I know Peter
and
his work. He’s above any kind of reproach—professionally and personally. Did you know he is my son’s godfather?” Shifting to stand, she added, “I won’t help you undermine him.”

Running a finger around the rim of her empty glass, Morgan smiled. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t put you in that position. I agree with you. It’s not Peter I’m investigating, it’s his mate over there, Alf Carney.”

Morgan perused the room and rose. “Can I rely on you and your discretion?”

Investigating a colleague was never going to make her popular, but getting the coroner offside would be the worse career move. Anya nodded. “Courier the files to my office and I’ll let you know what I think.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. She gave a half-smile then turned and embraced an elderly man who seemed more than willing to escort her in to dinner.

Never a fan of Alf Carney, who had deliberately tried to block her accessing vital information for a potential homicide case, Anya watched him finish his conversation with Peter Latham and make a direct line for the exit. She wondered what he had done to warrant a clandestine investigation.

Anya hoped that, just maybe, Morgan’s concerns about Carney’s work were unfounded. Becoming a “whistle-blower” was the last thing Anya needed.

Louise Richardson sat on the blue
lounge, body trembling. Mary Singer, the counsellor on duty, had draped a cotton rug around the woman’s shoulders and locked the door leading to the rest of the sexual-assault unit. Anya knocked and waited. Mary stepped outside to speak in private.

“She’s been assaulted with a knife as she left work and headed for her car. Thankfully, the wounds are superficial, but she’s pretty traumatized.”

Anya pulled an elastic band from her wrist and swept her uncombed hair into a ponytail. “Did he threaten to kill her if she called the police?”

Mary nodded. “Took her credit cards and told her he’d be watching and would come back if she told anyone.” She glanced over her half-glasses. “You look tired.”

“I was asleep on the lounge when you called.” Troubled by the prospect of investigating Alf Carney, Anya hadn’t felt like going to bed when she arrived home after speaking to Morgan Tully. She had begun watching a movie and dozed off before the ending. Anya took a deep breath and braced herself. This examination could take hours.

Louise Richardson barely acknowledged the two women entering the room. She hugged the rug and trembled.

“Are you cold?” Mary asked.

“No,” she muttered, “I just can’t stop shivering.”

“That’s pretty normal at this stage. It’ll pass in a little while.” Anya sat on the coffee table. “I’m Doctor Anya Crichton. I’ve come to see if you’re okay, and to make sure you’re safe.”

“How can I be safe after what he did to me?” Louise grimaced and pulled the rug tighter.

“You are safe here. No one can get in, we’ve locked the door from the inside.”

“What about my husband?”

Mary sat on one of the chairs in front of the coffee table. “I’ve spoken to him and he’s on his way. You can see him when he gets here if you’d like, or after we check you out. Whatever you’d prefer.”

“I’m not sure.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Anya moved next to Louise, careful not to disrupt the blue-backed waterproof sheet beneath. “It’s okay, we can get you a bit more presentable. You’re in control here, even if you may not feel like it right now. No one is going to make you do anything. You have choices and we’re here to let you know what they are.”

The counsellor handed Anya a large yellow envelope from which she pulled a white booklet.

“Thanks.” She lowered her head into Louise’s field of vision. “First thing you should know is that I don’t work for the police. I’m independent and my duty of care is to you. That means what happens here today is confidential and doesn’t leave this room if that’s what you want.”

Mary Singer nodded agreement.

Louise Richardson sat back, hands still trembling. “Can I have a drink of water, please?”

“If you don’t mind, we should probably go through a few things first. They might be important later on. After that you can have a drink. There are, if you like, two separate parts to what I do if you consent to an examination. The first is to check you out medically, to make sure you’ll be all right physically. The second part is that I can collect physical evidence that the man who did this might have left, while I examine you. I’ll only do this if you agree, and you have the choice later as to whether or not that evidence is handed over to the police for an investigation.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think straight right now.” Louise began to cry.

Anya looked at Mary. This woman needed a little time, but the sooner they examined her, the better the chances of getting effective specimens.

“What I should say, though, is that if we are going to collect forensic evidence that could be used to catch or convict this man, we’ll need to do it now, before some of that evidence disappears. Even before you have a drink.”

“I just want a sip of water. My mouth is so dry.”

“That’s partly your body going into survival mode, and the shock of the whole thing.” Anya touched the woman’s elbow, very gently, careful not to invade her space right now. “If this man bit your lip, made you perform oral sex, or even kissed you, there could be vital evidence in your mouth.” She tilted her head and spoke more quietly. “Did he do any of those things?”

Louise closed her eyes and more tears fell. “He did everything.” With a startle, she stood up and examined the red gush on the blue sheet. “Oh, God, I’m bleeding.”

“When was your last period?” Anya began to take notes.

“When we went to the Blue Mountains, a couple of weeks ago.” Louise Richardson’s face became pale. “God, I’m not on any contraception. We’ve been trying to get pregnant.”

Sperm lasted longer in the vagina for the first two weeks of a woman’s cycle, and that meant increased risk of pregnancy. Anya wrote the regimen for the morning-after pill in the treatment section.

“We can give you some medication that minimizes the risk. Do you know if he used a condom?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see what he did, just felt how much it hurt. How could I not know?”

It wasn’t uncommon for women not to know what their assailant had done. In a fight for survival, they had little or no chance of seeing what the attacker did or whether he used a condom. The smarter ones used a condom then took it with them.

“That’s pretty common too,” Anya reassured. “I think it’s important that I look at where the bleeding might be coming from and how severe it is—that is, if you’ll let me.”

Louise wiped her eyes with a tissue from the coffee table and began to talk—although not directly at either of the other women in the room. “Tim was in Berrima. He’s an art assessor for Christie’s and got a call about a Whitely self-portrait, one where he used his own hair. Tim was so excited, he wanted to have breakfast with the owner first thing this morning…that’s why he stayed the night.

“I was about to close up when a family came in with a script. The little girl was in pain with an ear infection and needed antibiotics. The pharmacy assistant and I normally leave together, but there didn’t seem any point in her staying. She’s got kids to get home to.”

Mary nodded sympathetically. She was the best SA counsellor Anya had ever met, always knowing exactly when to speak and when to listen.

“I park in the vacant lot opposite the hospital. I was about to get in the car when he grabbed me from behind.”

Anya glanced at bruises on Louise’s knuckles—evidence she’d fought back and might have captured some of the offender’s DNA.

A large bruise extended from her left eye to her cheek. On the same side, both lips were swollen and blackish-blue. A straight line of blood ran downward from her jugular vein, and disappeared toward the nape of her neck.

She pulled a strand of brown hair behind one ear. “He said he had a knife and would cut my throat if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

Louise paused, snuffled and stared at the ceiling. “He raped me, every way he could. I tried to fight him, but he was just too strong. He did things I don’t even do with my husband.”

Mary interjected. “There was nothing you could have done. In fact, fighting more may have got you killed.”

Louise Richardson stared at the coffee table again. “I thought he’d finished. Then he dragged me across the gravel with the knife stuck at my throat. I was so scared. All I could think about was my husband and how he’d cope if I died.” She put more hair behind her ear. “While he held me down, I couldn’t see. He said he knew where I lived and how he’d kill me if I told anyone or went to the police. Then he stuck the knife into my throat and said, ‘If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.’ That’s when he took off his gloves…and…raped me all over again.”

Anya gently patted Louise’s elbow. “Before I can examine you, I need your written permission. Even if we collect evidence, you still have time to decide whether or not you want it released to the police.”

Louise dropped the rug behind her shoulders and revealed a dirt-stained white blouse and navy skirt. Her jaw tightened and she sat up straighter, as though garnering strength.

“All right, I’ll sign, but I need time to think about whether I want the police to know.”