Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.

No wonder Geoffrey Willard had never fitted in.

Any one of them could have killed Eileen Randall.

“What the hell were you thinking, goingin like that alone?”

For the second time this week, Anya was being berated by a police officer. Hayden Richards paced around the office, hands in his pockets.

Anya couldn’t really explain why she had gone to the house, except to find out about Desiree’s saying and whether she was one of the rapist’s victims. The excuse seemed feeble now, considering what she had discovered.

She sat on a chair, trying to come to terms with what she had done. She was only in the room because Hayden and Sorrenti needed to know exactly what Desiree had said. “At least now you know that Luke Platt, ‘Badger’ and ‘Carrot’ lived in Fisherman’s Bay as well when Eileen Randall was killed. Luke’s a taxidermist and had contact with, or at least knowledge of, Liz Dorman. Maybe she recognized him, which is why he went back to kill her.”

Hayden stood at a whiteboard. Across the top was a timeline with the names and dates of the rape victims. In bold were the names of the three murder victims. He wrote Luke Platt in the left-hand column.

“We know he was down the south coast at the time Dorman died.”

Meira Sorrenti stood next to a partition, jaw clenched. “The motel clerk remembers him. Said he was more polite than their usual clientele.”

“But Desiree said he bunked on couches while away. Then again, if he were paid cash, why not stay at a motel and get some proper sleep?” Anya wondered why the female detective was being more agreeable than expected.

Hayden crossed out Platt’s name. “Alibi’s rock-solid and he was interstate when Leonie Turnbull died.”

The rest of the detectives in the room remained silent. Anya suddenly felt embarrassed at trying to justify herself. She had crossed a line by going to the house alone and everyone in the room knew it.

“We borrowed the group photo from Desiree Platt last night,” Sorrenti began. “Mrs. Platt was cooperative once we explained that her husband wasn’t a suspect. So we are aware that a group of them from Fisherman’s Bay live in the local area. They all played football together and called themselves the Pit-Bull Maulers. It seems each had a tattoo of a pit-bull’s head on the back of one hand, except Nick Hudson.”

“Willard didn’t have one,” Hayden said, as if part of a twin act. “He was never part of the group. His cousin played, but says he chose not to have one because of Geoff missing out.”

Hayden and Sorrenti were working as a team. Anya wondered what had prompted Meira’s change in attitude.

The senior officer took the lead.

“One of these guys is a real possibility. Barry Lerner. Goes by the name of Badger. He’s got a record of violence against women and was accused of sexual assault, but the woman withdrew her statement.”

“Any chance of interviewing the woman or seeing her medical records?” Anya ventured.

Hayden anchored one arm over the whiteboard. “She just vanished. He could have killed her, too, and disposed of the body.”

Anya remembered the cubby house at one of the victim’s homes. “Did anything turn up at the Davises’ house? If he were stalking Jodie from the cubby, he must have left some piece of himself.”

“Couldn’t get jackshit to tie Lerner to that rape.”

There was no DNA left at the scene.

Sorrenti put both hands on her hips. “Now, I want to know this bastard’s movements for the last twenty years. Everywhere he’s been, worked and visited. Check registrations in every state, leases, rental-bond boards, phone accounts, whatever you have to. And I want a tail on him. I want to know when he eats, sleeps, craps and even takes a leak. Everything.” She paced across the front of the room. “The others from the Bay, the rest of the gang. I want to know everything there is to know about them as well. They should be checked for tattoos and scars. Don’t go by police files, check them out for yourselves. I want to know everything, no matter how insignificant it might seem. This Lerner is our major suspect, but I’m not excluding any of the others just yet.”

Another detective looked puzzled. “Why are we looking for ones with tattoos?”

Sorrenti’s patience seemed to have run out. “Because they all had the same fucking tattoos, like a gang. Maybe some got them removed and they left scars. Scars don’t get suntans, so look whiter than the rest of the hand. These guys stick together like shit to a blanket. They could even be in this together.”

The junior detective persisted. “If they still hang out together, why would they have them removed?”

“Maybe they just grew up,” Hayden said, “and realized that the job-fairy didn’t deliver to anyone with flesh-eating dogs all over their skin.”

Anya offered another explanation. “Part of prison rehab involves the option of removing tattoos. The system pays for dermatologists to remove them, usually with laser. The most visible would be removed first for the same reason Hayden suggested. To increase the chances of finding work once out of jail.”

Anya needed to raise an issue, aware that it would probably aggravate Sorrenti. “Is it possible to get the case against Geoffrey Willard dropped? He’s still on remand. It might flush out the real killer.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Sorrenti sniffed. In another era, she could have spat tobacco in Anya’s direction. “Not until we’ve thoroughly reviewed the Randall case. Does anyone know if the evidence still exists?”

Hayden screwed up his moustache. “Since the case had been closed and Willard imprisoned, no one will have thought to keep the clothes and physical evidence. For all we know, they were destroyed years ago.”

Sorrenti sat on the table, one leg swinging. “I’ve seen the alleged Willard confession from the night Randall died. Having seen it, I have to agree with Hayden’s assessment. Willard didn’t know shit from clay that night. The police set him up for a confession. We could get the case reopened if we had some physical evidence, but so far we’ve got nothing to tie Lerner to Eileen Randall.”

“Or Elizabeth Dorman, for that matter,” Hayden added.

“Maybe you can get what you need,” Anya said. “It’s just occurred to me. I think I might know where that missing physical evidence could be.”

Morgan Tully listened to Anya’s plea,but sat at her desk, stony-faced.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, but the area doesn’t have the funds to go chasing cases that were closed decades ago. We’re struggling to keep up with the samples taken from current crime.”

She pushed back her chair, stood up and closed the office door. “It can take eight months to process a sexual-assault kit as it is. I’m afraid this isn’t a priority.”

Anya put the brown paper bags on the desk. Judging by Morgan’s response-a sneezing spasm-she was allergic to dust. When Charlie Boyd souvenired them after the trial, the world forgot about them-until now. It had not been the first time that a policeman had squirrelled evidence from a trial away, particularly in the biggest case of his career. Thankfully, he had been forthcoming, believing that Willard’s guilt could be proved with modern science. The retired policeman had not considered the possibility of science exonerating an innocent man.

“These have been kept in a police-officer’s shed for twenty years, while Geoffrey Willard served time for a crime he probably didn’t commit. There’s at least enough doubt to hold another inquest.”