Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Outside the building, on the steps, Hayden explained, “Things are pretty tense in there. Sorrenti’s new to the job and feels undermined by my presence. Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t.”

They descended the stairs, Hayden a little short of breath. “I need you to ask the pharmacist some more specific questions. About the assault.”

The pair waited for a marked car to exit the underground police car park.

“Even if I track her down, we don’t know if this woman will agree to see me, let alone be quizzed on every aspect of her attack.”

“I know. An unofficial statement is the best chance we have right now. The more we have on how this guy behaves during the attacks, the better the chance of catching him sooner. He may have given something important away, in the way he spoke, what he said, what he didn’t say. If he changed attitude during the assault, and what, if anything, provoked him. Did he oblige when she begged him to stop, or did it make him more aggressive?”

“You’re asking a lot. This could compromise the sexual assault service if the Department of Health finds out. I’m crossing the line from patient advocate to police interrogator.”

“Every doctor has a duty of care regarding public health. Any information you collect is as important as tracing sources for transmissible diseases. This guy is a disease, and he’s spreading sickness fast.”

They crossed the road at the next corner, careful to avoid a grease patch.

“There’s no way I’ll push her. She’s fragile enough. If she says no, that’s it.”

“Agreed.” The detective began to puff again as they picked up the pace. “I also need to know whether he took anything belonging to her. Anything at all, or could he have taken it before the assault?”

Anya stopped and waited. Hayden pulled a folded sheet from his jacket with another list of questions. Catching his breath, he said, “I’m counting on you. Anything that seems insignificant could turn out to be vital.”

Back in the SA unit, Anya prepared forthe weekly staff meeting. It was mostly a progress report on the week’s cases, and an opportunity to discuss issues or rosters.

Each meeting normally began with afternoon tea and a discussion of any clients who concerned the counsellors. Mary Singer chose instead to raise the question of funds for another fridge for storing forensic samples.

As she spoke, the women took their seats in the staffroom.

“Doctor Sinclair had to phone sixteen women this week to make room for new samples. Fourteen women and two men refused to make formal statements. As a result, those specimens have been destroyed. We all know that victims often change their minds and agree to go to the police down the track. We’re no good to anyone if the evidence is thrown out because we don’t have enough room to keep it.”

One of the other counsellors dunked her teabag in a Garfield cup and grabbed a biscuit before sitting. “I often have to phone around when space becomes a problem. A bar-fridge just isn’t big enough for the amount of work we do.”

Anya and another forensic physician, Pauline Sinclair, shared the full-time job and had the help of four general practitioners for the after-hours roster. The meetings were the best way to find out what had happened on anyone’s days off. Anya had not realized space was such a premium in the unit.

“What about the bagged samples-the underwear, towels, sheets that need to dry out?” she asked.

“They’re kept in the top cupboards and given to police as requested. The remainder are not a problem. I suppose we’ve never really thought to throw any of them out because there’s always been room for them. It’s the refrigerated samples we need to do something with.”

“I’ll let Pauline know when she comes in tomorrow.” Mary took notes. “She apologized for not making it today, but her daughter was getting a music prize at school.”

The women in the group raised their cups and smiled. With all the staff, the achievement of someone’s family member was cause for celebration, and something normal and positive to focus on, even for a moment. Everyone spoke amongst themselves for a couple of minutes.

Anya wanted the day to end. “So, anyone have a case they’d like to discuss?”

Mary chimed in again. “Melanie Havelock. She appears stoic and as though she’s coping, but her mother tells me she is showering in a swimsuit. She won’t be naked. And she’ll only shower if her mother is in the next room.”

For the others’ benefit, Anya explained. “We’re concerned this might be a serial rapist in the area. We have three cases now, but there could be others. This time, he made Melanie shower after the assault and watched her. That’s also where he threatened he’d be back. He carries a knife and leaves a bruise on the left upper chest in the shape of the blade.”

The staff uniformly nodded. Almost every rape victim experienced post-traumatic stress. The scenario was not uncommon.

“Melanie’s attacker tells the women that if they can’t be hurt, they can’t be loved.”

The mood in the room felt flat. Most of the staff had been called out at least once overnight during the week, and looked exhausted.

“Does that sound familiar to anyone?” Anya checked. “Even de-identified information could help the investigation, so you don’t have to worry about breaching confidentiality.”

The ten staff shook their heads. It didn’t sound familiar.

“How is Melanie doing otherwise?” Anya asked Mary.

“She’s started a new job as planned, but her mother is picking her up from town. It’s going to take a lot of time and support.”

One of the newer counsellors apologized for interrupting, but thought it a good time to raise the issue of overtime payments. Anya excused herself and ushered Mary into the corridor.

“Where exactly are the bagged samples kept?”

Mary took a wooden chair from the office into the second counselling room. The chair unfolded into a small stepladder.

“Top cupboard,” she suggested. “You can pass them down if you like.”

“I’m looking for one in particular.” Anya opened the top cupboard and felt around. Dust covered everything, including what felt like a dead cockroach. She pulled out some large paper bags and examined the names before handing them down to Mary.

“Why the sudden urgency?”

“There’s another one right at the back.” Anya stretched her arm and fingers, making contact with the dusty paper. She could just tease the bag closer until it was in reach. Pulling it out, she coughed, then sneezed. Relief filled her as she recognized her own handwriting. Written in large bold print was the name GLORIA HAVELOCK.

Peter Latham spoke into his dictaphone.He could have been reciting poetry as he rhythmically outlined the findings in each system of the body.

Having worked at the Sydney Institute for so many years, Peter was leader of the morgue “sub-culture,” a mini-society in which every member performed tasks that few people understood or really appreciated.

Anya Crichton had gladly accepted an invitation to lunch with her mentor. Even the formalin smell provided familiar comfort. Today, no music played, which meant either the day’s post-mortems were finished, or relatives were due to view a body.

“Ah, my favorite interloper,” Peter declared as he clicked off his recorder. “Just finishing up.” He referred to something in his notes. “Third hit-and-run this month. The police and coroner want the report ASAP.”

On the steel table lay the body of a young male with severe head injuries and bruising to his abdomen. His right leg had almost been severed, with a large section of bone protruding through the front of the thigh.