Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

The elderly neighbor’s presence seemed to affect the detective.

“The DNA evidence you have is dubious. The distribution doesn’t fit with an attack and it’s on more than one shirt.”

“So?”

“So, even a first-year law student would blow your case out of the water. Science can make a case, but it can more often than not destroy one.”

“Is that what you and that Slater bitch are doing? You’re so desperate to make names for yourselves you’ll prove Willard didn’t do it at any cost. Oh, and going on TV news was a pretty gutless way to let us all know where you stood.”

Being linked with Veronica Slater made bile rise in Anya’s chest. The idea of colluding with the woman to further her career was nothing less than disgusting. Anya felt like hitting something-hard. Slater’s head came to mind first. Sorrenti came a close second. She tried to control her anger and opened and closed her fists.

“Detective, I think we should-”

“Stop there! There is no ‘we.’” Sorrenti’s face looked ready to explode. “You have nothing to do with this case. I don’t want you involved. You’re poison. You may have already shafted Alf Carney, but you sure as hell won’t screw me over.”

She swung around down the path, stopping to call “Have a good day” to Mrs. Bugalugs, who responded with a grin and a wave.

Then she stopped at the end of the path and announced, “Oh yeah, and Nick Hudson is threatening us with a harassment suit. His lawyer mentioned your name, too.”

Anya leaned against the door, feeling like she’d just gone a few rounds in a boxing ring. Inside, the phone rang and she wearily pushed open the wooden door. There was no sign of Elaine; she must have been at the post-office.

Anya’s hands were shaking when she picked up the receiver. The museum wanted her to know that the DNA on Nick Hudson’s dog had been analyzed. It didn’t match the animal hair found on the body of Eileen Randall.

There was nothing to connect Nick Hudson with the murder.

Anya slumped onto the waiting-room lounge. Maybe Meira Sorrenti had been right. She was searching for holes in the Randall murder because Alf Carney had done the autopsy. Despite the doubts she had about the time of death, it was still entirely possible that Geoff Willard had raped and killed the girl and then done the same to Liz Dorman.

The last thing she needed was a lawsuit. She tried to convince herself that Geoffrey was the serial offender, but something inside niggled. The supposed love-letter and photo from Melanie Havelock and the woman killed while he was in prison didn’t fit at all. And why did Louise Richardson describe her attacker’s hand as having a sort of stipe on it? She decided to go back to the start and review the evidence she’d taken in the sexual-assault cases, in case she’d missed something-anything.

When Anya arrived at the SA unit, MarySinger was sitting at her computer, frowning. Her tousled hair was more uncontrolled than normal.

“I was just about to call you. Have you seen today’s papers?”

Current news was the last thing on Anya’s mind this morning. She shook her head.

“There’s an article in the Herald about a victim’s photographs being posted onto a rapists’ website.”

“The poor woman,” Anya said. “What country?”

Mary looked over her granny glasses.

“Anya, it has to have come from one of our units.”

Phones rang unanswered.

“We’ve had victims calling all morning, checking to see if it was their photos.”

This was exactly why Anya thought photos should never be taken. A black and white pencil drawing of genitals held little interest for pedophiles and sex offenders. A scandal like this would do irreparable damage to the unit and the trust they had all worked so hard to establish with victims and the community. She had no doubt that the number of people presenting would rapidly diminish.

“There isn’t much we can do until the police have done their computer checks and tracking. I’ll be in my office.”

Mary returned to the computer. There was nothing else to say until the source of the leak had been identified.

Anya hid in her bunker for over two hours. For once, the space felt more like a sanctuary than a cubby-hole. She appreciated that no one wanted to spend time in there unnecessarily. It gave her the chance to think and go over the evidence that had bothered her until now. There had to be something she was missing. Something obvious.

Desiree Platt’s comments about pain and love still bothered her. Had she come into contact with the rapist as a friend or victim? Nick mentioned that she stayed over when her partner worked or was away. Maybe she’d been attacked and was too afraid to be alone? Or she could have been carrying on with Nick Hudson while her husband was gone? How many friends who might have used the phrase were back at Fisherman’s Bay?

The victim named Dell she’d met up there had said that most men worked at the nickel mine. That could mean a huge pool of men to draw on, and it would be difficult to trace many of them twenty years down the track.

She tried another angle and phoned the government’s analytical laboratory. The number of rapes in which a condom was used was rapidly on the rise, possibly because of rapists’ fear of sexually transmitted infection. More likely, it was so the offender didn’t leave biological fluids at the scene.

For each assault case, forensic physicians at the unit had taken an extra swab in case a condom lubricant could be identified. Another of Jean Le Beau’s students had done groundbreaking work on identification of specific condom lubricants. Each manufacturer had its own formula, which was like a chemical fingerprint. Isolating the brand might just help catch the rapist.

After being transferred, she spoke to the head biochemist, Ethan Gormley. With the names and dates of the cases, he checked his computer.

“You were right,” he said. “Each slide you took had the same kind of silicone-based lubricant, which means-”

“He used the same brand each time.”

Anya listened. Serial rapists who used condoms commonly used the same brand. As far as most people were concerned, one brand equalled any other, but apparently not to some rapists.

“Exactly. It’s an imported one called Fluidity, for originality.”

“Thanks, Ethan. Can you email the results?”

She wondered about the assault on Eileen Randall. Twenty years ago, had the same brand existed? What were the chances?

A piercing series of bleeps interrupted her thoughts.

Before picking up the pager, she automatically pulled the papers together in a pile. One leak from an SA unit was bad enough, and interruptions were how people got distracted and left rooms without putting things away.

She checked the number, which, oddly, was the hospital switch. Ordinarily, they put calls through to the unit secretary.

“There’s an outside call,” the operator said. After a click, Hayden Richards’ voice rasped.

“Can we meet? It’s urgent.”

“Look, Sorrenti made it pretty clear-”

“I heard, but I’ve got some information you may want to hear.”

Anya sighed. “Where are you now?”

“Outside your unit. You can practically wave to me.”

The cloak-and-dagger charades were beyond a joke. Anya didn’t have the patience, not today, not ever. First Sorrenti, now Richards being childish.

“Talk to your colleague and leave me out of it!” She slammed down the phone. Within a moment she had left her office, locked her door and stomped off toward the detective.

As she walked down the path she could barely control her irritation. “What puerile games are you people playing?”