Kathryn Fox - Blood Born

Anya let it ring a few times. Calls this early were never good news. Ben was not allowed to ring until eight o’clock at the earliest, no matter where he was.

It had to be work.

Anya lifted the receiver and instantly recognized the voice of Hayden Richards, from the sexual assault task force.

“We need you right now for a victim.”

“Good morning to you, too.” No apology for the hour, Anya noted. For Hayden that was unusual.

“I know it’s early, but we need you to come in.”

Anya lifted a peppermint tea bag from a plastic container on the bench into her World’s Best Mum mug and poured boiling water over it.

“Good news is, I’m not on call. It’s my day off to shake this chest cold. If you hang on, I’ll check who’s on instead.” She leaned over to the noticeboard in the kitchen. A new doctor on the sexual assault roster was listed for this week.

“Listen, Doc, I understand that, but we want you to do this one.”

Hayden sounded anxious.

“I wouldn’t ask if the victim was in better shape. Trust me, it needs someone with your experience.” He paused. “I’ve honestly never seen anything as bad as this.”

Anya had worked with the senior detective on a number of cases. His experience, knowledge and unflappable demeanor made him perfect for the SA squad. She thought by now he would have seen everything a deranged human being could do to another. Something had to be very wrong. In the background, she could hear muffled voices.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this. Where are you?”

“Western District emergency department.”

The relief in his voice was evident.

“Liz Gould is with me now and Kate Farrer’s at the scene.”

Anya swallowed. If Homicide were already involved, someone had been killed, or this victim wasn’t expected to live. It was unfair to expect a novice doctor to cope with the examination.

“All right.” Sleep, the bookshelf and groceries could wait. “I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, Doc, I’ve already sent someone from the squad to pick you up.”

The line went dead.

Anya forgot the tea. No time for a shower; upstairs she slipped into fresh underwear, dark jeans and a navy shirt, then scraped her hair into a ponytail with her fingers, securing it with an elastic band.

She heard a knock on the front door. A detective constable introduced himself as Shaun Wheeler and already had the car’s passenger door open and the engine running. She slung a leather satchel over her shoulder, collected her doctor’s bag and slipped her feet into the damp court shoes still positioned by the door.

“I need to check the windows,” she called, but the constable was back in the driver’s seat.

She went back to the lounge room and clicked on the television. It would sound as though someone was home, in case anyone had noticed that the house had recently been empty.

In the car, the detective said little apart from telling her he had driven Bevan Hart home after he had given his statement at the station yesterday. Anya could picture the broken man and his estranged wife and wished things could have been different.

“What can you tell me about the victim we’re seeing?” she asked, keen to change the subject and prepare for the task ahead.

“Sorry, all I know is that I have to get you to the emergency department-p-p-pronto.”

The constable’s stuttering might have explained why he was loathe to engage in conversation. Besides, a junior constable may not have been privy to any details about the case, or have been warned not to divulge confidential details by his superiors.

Traffic slowed when a delivery truck parked in one of two lanes on Victoria Road. Wheeler opened his window and put the blue flashing light on the car’s roof. With the siren blaring, they crossed the median strip and bypassed the obstruction.

In record time, Shaun Wheeler delivered Anya to the casualty entrance; the same double doors through which she had begun and ended numerable shifts during her internship and residency.

Homicide detective Liz Gould paced inside, talking on her mobile. Last Anya heard, she had been on maternity leave. Her presence was reassuring. A kind, warm manner complemented Kate Farrer’s more brash approach. Hayden Richards stood nearby.

In the reception area a uniformed officer sat with a middle-aged man on plastic chairs that, like everything that could possibly be stolen, were bolted to the floor. The man glanced up at Anya with partially raised eyebrows, almost pleading for something. She had seen that look many times before in people desperate for the smallest bit of hope.

The waiting room was almost empty. Staff would be handing over soon. A cleaner whirred a polisher across the floor, preparing for the daily onslaught that made every day in this place feel like Groundhog day.

The place looked exactly the same. Only the familiar blue vinyl chairs lining the walls now had holes in the padded armrests with yellow foam poking through. So much for prioritization of health care, she thought.

Liz hung up and led Anya to a small examination room, often used for breaking bad news to relatives. Neither woman sat.

“Victim’s name is Sophie Goodwin. Fourteen years old. She was found about an hour ago on the roadside, with serious stab wounds to her neck, chest and stomach. The paramedics brought her in a few minutes ago.”

Anya knew that was longer to deliver an acute trauma patient than the protocols permitted. “What took them so long?”

Liz shrugged her shoulders. “They had to protect her neck, they said.”

The detective spoke without emotion, simply stating the facts. But her eyes concentrated on the door, as though she were expecting someone to come in at any time.

Lowering her voice, she explained, “From the blood trail, Sophie crawled about forty meters to the road from the house she was in. A neighbor out looking for his dog found her and called the paramedics. They worked on her all that time, but apparently the doctors here don’t give her much chance.”

Anya knew the injuries had to be extensive and blood loss substantial if the girl had left a trail of blood that far. Protecting the neck meant either her airway was compromised, cervical vertebrae were broken or a wound was life-threatening.

“Are you sure she was sexually assaulted? Was she conscious?”

“No, but she was found naked below the waist and bleeding vaginally.”

Anya thought of the poor man in the waiting room. The young woman sounded as though she had already defied all odds by surviving this long. “Is that the father outside?”

Liz nodded.

“He isn’t ready to be interviewed yet. He’s in shock. Whoever did this raped and murdered her older sister during the night. We found her body back in the house by following Sophie’s trail.”

One daughter dead and the other in critical condition. Anya did not want to think about how their father might be feeling.

“The girl is the priority,” she said. The surgeons have to do what they can to save her. You have to understand that collecting evidence comes second.”

“I know that, but I want you in there. You understand about preserving anything that can help us. Photograph the wounds, get the clothes, do a rape kit. If you have to, follow them to the operating room.” Liz grabbed Anya’s arm. “Whoever did this needs to be found. What happened at that house was beyond horror. The sister was tied down and stabbed over a dozen times.” She let go and stepped back. “We have to find whoever did this before they attack again.”

Hayden Richards opened the door.

“The head doctor told the triage nurse you could go in now.”

Anya stepped out of the room and tried not to look at Sophie Goodwin’s father.