Authors: Tara Moss
There were several unusual elements in the “Stiletto Murders”, and as the days dragged on, Detective Flynn had become more and more obsessed with re-analysing and re-interpreting the evidence. He knew that in signature killings, every violent and perverse detail of the crime scene and victimology offered potentially valuable insights into the killer’s personality. However Catherine Gerber’s murder provided few clues, and many more questions.
He had spent all morning poring over the facts yet again, trying unsuccessfully to join up any personal or professional link between the three known victims. It seemed that they had a random killer on their hands; the hardest type to catch.
“Any thoughts on the condom thing?” Andy asked out of the blue, as Jimmy walked past his desk carrying his lunch, which reeked of garlic and onions.
“I reckon this malaka plans to kill ’em the moment he lays eyes on ’em,” Jimmy replied. “So he’s using the skins for his own reasons.” He stopped and leant on Andy’s desk, biting into a gyros sandwich.
Tzatziki oozed out of the pita bread, down his fingers to his wrists. Jimmy was oblivious. “If my hooker-hater theory is right my friend,” he said with his mouth full, “maybe he’s afraid of AIDS. That could be another reason he likes them young.”
“There’s blood everywhere,” Andy pointed out. “If STDs or HIV was his concern, he would take other precautions as well. Maybe he does. I’ve got the feeling he doesn’t want to leave semen because he’s familiar with forensic procedure. Half these guys study fuckin’ law enforcement and forensics when they’re inside.”
“Yeah. Such a wise use of their time.”
“And our money. So you figure he’s got a record.”
“Possibly.”
The two detectives stood silently.
“Where does he do ’em, Andy? He’d look like a fuckin’ abattoir worker by the time he was finished. He can’t have a wife, I wouldn’t think.”
Andy stared at the running board; at the dead faces of Roxanne, Cristelle and Catherine. Makedde’s impressive physique threatened to distract him completely. Suddenly the red pen marking her body looked like blood. He turned away.
“He doesn’t bother taking the jewellery, which is a common souvenir, and he only takes one shoe, not both. So he’s not giving them to his wife as a sick gift or anything. You’re right, he probably lives alone.
But we can’t assume that. The other clothes are missing. What does he do with them?”
Jimmy didn’t have an answer.
“There’s some parallel here to the Jerome Brudos case,” Andy said.
“Brudos?”
“Jerome Henry Brudos. As a pre-teen in Oregon in the States he abducted younger girls at knife-point. He dragged them off to the family barn and made them strip. Then he’d take some photos. He’d lock them up in some shed, and a few minutes later he’d come back and pretend he was his twin brother Ed. He changed his clothes, hair, everything for this, and then he’d pretend to be horrified at what his ‘deranged sibling’ had done. He’d even make a big show of destroying the film in the camera, and he’d make the girl promise she wouldn’t tell.” Andy paused. “There’s bound to be some infraction, however minor, to indicate deviant tendencies in our killer’s youth. I’m surprised Tony’s past didn’t bring up anything.”
“Best precursor of violence is past violence,” Jimmy said. “Most people wouldn’t know what to look for, though. Getting into fights after school attracts a lot more attention than quietly dissecting household pets.”
Andy could hear Jimmy’s stomach rumble. “Finish your sandwich.”
Jimmy took a fist-sized bite out of one corner and
more tzatziki flowed down his chin. Chewing lustily he said, “So what’d this Brudos guy do when he got older?”
“He became the Stiletto Killer,” Andy said, grinning.
Jimmy laughed, and gestured at his groin. “Here, mate. Right here.”
“Actually, he advertised for models to come and model shoes and pantyhose for him. They ended up dead, hanging from his garage. He’d photograph them nude or in frilly clothes and high-heeled shoes. Always high heels.”
“Parallels? You’re not kidding. Our photographer would have all kinds of young birds around, willing to have their photos taken.”
“Exactly. ‘Trust me, I’m a photographer’.”
As Jimmy started to walk back to his desk, Andy said, “The weird thing about Brudos, well, apart from the obvious, is that he
did
have a wife. She never went in the garage.”
“Sounds like Angie.”
“He kept souvenirs…body parts. I bet our guy does too, but what does he do with them?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Just goes to show you, you don’t always know who you’re living with.”
Jimmy wandered off to his desk and left Andy to his laptop, concentrating on his notes:
Roxanne. Cristelle. Catherine.
June 26. July 9. July 16.
More torture. More mutilation.
This guy’s picking up speed.
By 1.30 p.m. Makedde stood before the window dressed in black pants and a fine knit sweater. Her fingers played absent-mindedly with the diamond ring on her thumb.
JT?
The two-letter puzzle had been on her mind for hours. She couldn’t recall any JTs that she knew. Perhaps it was a nickname or abbreviation. But for what? Speculation was pointless. She had more pressing matters to deal with. Soon Tony Thomas would arrive, and she would have to do her best to decipher his guilt and level of dangerousness. Her study of psychology might assist her if she was observant, but if Tony was a psychopath it would be impossible to detect the usual signs of perjury.
She slid a sharp paring knife into her purse. “Wish me luck, Jaqui,” she said under her breath with an almost superstitious intensity. Jaqui Reeves was Makedde’s Canadian self-defence instructor and friend. She was well versed in martial arts, street fighting and the use of weapons, and was an enthusiastic teacher. She also had a notorious
disrespect for some of the technicalities of Canadian law, particularly with regard to concealed weapons. Among other gadgets, she kept a small folding knife in her bra at all times, which she affectionately called her “booby trap”. Knowing Makedde’s obsession with on-going training, she had referred her to Hanna, who taught Friday afternoon classes in Sydney. It seemed that Mak needed to be on her toes more than ever, and she looked forward to attending.
She planned to take Tony to a café where there were lots of people around. She would confront him and scrutinise his every response. And if something went terribly wrong, she’d have the knife. She wasn’t afraid to use it. It was better than nothing.
She crossed her fingers.
By 1.50 p.m. Mak hoped that Tony had changed his mind, or better yet, had been hit by a car on his way over. Four minutes later a hard knock shook the front door.
Doesn’t anyone use the buzzer downstairs?
She peeked through the spy hole and saw Tony’s round face peering up at her, sporting a freakishly large nose in the warped glass image. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers. With the knife in the purse clutched at her side, Makedde reluctantly opened the door.
Tony barged straight in. “Do you have a vase for these?” he asked, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Tony—”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he shouted from across the room. “This place is a box. A pretty girl like you should be staying somewhere upmarket,” he continued as he wandered around, touching things. “Nice to be down at Bondi, I guess. But still—”
“It will do,” Makedde said sharply.
He was already examining the kitchen. “Your cupboards are filthy, you really should get a cleaner.”
“It’s carbon.”
“What?”
‘Never mind.”
“I’ve got a place,” he persisted. “I rent it to models occasionally. Sarah Jackson stayed there for a while, until her career really took off.”
Sarah Jackson was on the cover of the latest British
Vogue
.
“No thanks.”
“You should at least see the place.”
She gave him an icy look.
“You know, you could be a really top model if you got your lips done. You’ve got a great face.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can we get out of here now? I’m starving.”
“Just a second. We’ve gotta talk.”
“ We can talk while I eat,” she insisted.
It didn’t work. Tony sat on her couch and started complaining about the police, and how they were treating him like a criminal. “They’re pulling apart my
files, looking at all my negatives. You have to believe me.”
“What do I have to believe, Tony?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“What was on the film then?”
“What film?” he said stupidly.
She gave him a hard look, and spoke slowly, emphasising every point. “The film the cops confiscated.”
His face went red. “I…”
“Why did you take photographs of that poor girl’s corpse?” She stared unflinchingly at Tony as he sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, like an ostrich without the necessary sand. “Did you know we were friends? Did you know I would find her?” she pushed. Tony began blubbering incoherently. “What made you choose that location? Out of all the beaches in Sydney, why did you choose
that
location, on
that
day?” she demanded.
“I always shoot at that damn beach! I must have shot there twenty times this year. No one is ever around, so you can get away without paying the permit. They charge a fortune to use the beaches these days. It’s the truth!”
He was pathetic. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, at least for a moment.
“Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”
As it turned out, Tony couldn’t give her a single reason. With his pathetic Don Juan façade ripped away, he became so flustered that he made a hasty retreat, begging her not to tell anyone in the business about the photos of Catherine’s corpse. It was a pitiful display. No alibi could be as poignant as his feeble ramblings for forgiveness.
Later that afternoon Makedde sat alone at the Raw Bar, a great sushi place on Bondi Beach. She watched as sizeable sets of waves rolled in, dotted with wetsuit-clad surfers, and then crashed back onto themselves, sending boards and bodies flying. She smiled as a plate of fastidiously designed sushi was placed in front of her. The salmon onigiri melted in her mouth, and the California rolls were fresh and delicious with a subtle bite of wasabi. An unconscious “Mmmm” escaped her lips as she ate.
Never keep a Vanderwall from their lunch.
She couldn’t picture Tony Thomas smashing someone’s skull in, unless he was drunk. Let alone slicing them open. Disembowelling? She was pretty sure he couldn’t stomach it. He had access to beautiful, impressionable young girls, and he obviously took advantage of it as best he could. But was he a killer? Mentally, she crossed him off her suspect list, but reminded herself not to be too sure.
A clever psychopath could play any role they liked to assure you of their innocence. She had to keep her mind open, and she had to find the identity of the elusive JT.
Detective Flynn was immersed in the data on his laptop when the loud, deliberate coughing of one of his colleagues made him look up. Cassandra, his soon to be ex-wife, was striding into the office with a briefcase and a stack of papers under her arm. Jimmy was behind her, waving his hands and mouthing the words, “The picture! Get the picture down!”
It was too late.
Cassandra paused in front of the bulletin board and scowled at the poster-sized photo of Makedde. He watched uncomfortably as her eyes rested on the breasts.
“I can see you’ve grown up, Andy,” she snarled, flicking her dark hair back. Anger was an unattractive emotion, and one he had seen from her all too frequently in recent years. He didn’t even attempt to explain.
“What do you want, Cassandra?” he asked, leaning against his desk with his arms folded.
She looked at him with disgust and threw a wad of papers onto the desk. “Sign these.”
Jimmy was watching quietly.
“Let’s do this somewhere private,” Andy said, pointing to the interview room. “Shall we?”
Cassandra led the way, making a wide berth around the photo. Andy followed. Before he shut the door, he stopped to show Jimmy a clenched fist, mouthing the words, “I’m going to kill you.”
They sat down at the table and he began reading the lawyer lingo.
“Just sign it,” she insisted.
“The car?” He gave her a steady look, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I need the car,” she said.
He could feel his blood starting to boil. “
You
need the car? I need the damn car. What I’ve got is a heap of crap. Jimmy’s gotta pick me up half the time.”
“Tough.”
“Tough?” He tried to restrain himself. “You have a car. You have two! What’s wrong with the Mazda?”
“It’s an old piece of shit. I want the Honda.
You
can have the Mazda.”
He began drumming his fingers slowly on the formica tabletop.
“You know how I love that car.”
She said nothing.
He pleaded, “Cassandra, you’ve got our house. You’ve got most of the furniture. I just want the Honda…please.”
She stood up. “When did you ever do anything for me? The whole time we were married it was you, you, you! Your career. Your life! Are you happy,” she jeered, “now that you’re a big senior sergeant with a big badge and a big gun, and a bunch of losers to laugh at your infantile jokes?”
“You knew my lifestyle before we married,” he said quietly. She was doing it to him again; pushing his buttons. It was as if she actually wanted him to lose his temper. But he stared at the table with determination, gripping its legs with whitening knuckles.
“Well, I didn’t know
you
! You petty little shit!” With that she ripped open the door, leaving him still gripping the table, and marched past the silent detectives in the office like a prize prima donna. “You’ll hear from my lawyer!” she yelled out as she disappeared into the busy hall.
He let go of the table and slammed his fist hard into the wall. Once. Twice. Three hits.
Damn that fucking bitch!
A cut opened up across his knuckles.
God, she made him angry. Why was she so damn greedy? Nothing would satisfy her. Nothing. Not when they were married and not now. Andy stormed back to his desk, brooding, aware of the silent pity from the other detectives. They weren’t laughing this time, probably because most of them had been in the
same position at one point or another. It was an occupational hazard.
They could have worked on their relationship, he believed that. But she didn’t want to. Cassandra had become worse over the four years they’d been married. Now that she had found success as a real-estate agent and was doing well, she wanted to get him out of her life. Yes, he worked long hours. Yes, he was wrapped up in his job. But when some guy is running around slicing women from head to toe, it’s hard to care about getting home on time for dinner. He flexed his hand and a trickle of blood flowed down from his knuckles into his fist.
A rookie constable, whom he didn’t much like, noticed it. “Hey, sarg, whatcha done to yourself?” Hoosier asked, reaching towards his hand.
“Fuck off,” Flynn spat. “Go arrest some fucking jay walker, will you?” Hoosier cringed back and slunk quietly away. Andy turned and ripped the photo of Makedde off the board and threw it in the garbage. His veins were pumping so hard, a thin spray of blood spattered the rubbish. He’d had enough. He wasn’t planning on copping any more crap over Jimmy’s pranks.
Makedde arrived at Central Homicide in the evening, as arranged. She had her shirt sleeves rolled
up, ready to be fingerprinted for the first time in her life. The duty sergeant had been expecting her and gave her an approving once over.
“You can head on up, Miss Vanderwall.”
She stepped into the elevator, which carried her noisily to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, she was struck by how quiet it was. Most of the detectives had gone home or were out on assignment, but she found Flynn glued to the laptop on his desk, surrounded by files and papers and tagged and pinned city maps. His jacket had been discarded, his tie loosened and his pale blue shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, just like hers. She noticed his right hand was decorated with skin-toned plasters.
“Good evening,” she said simply.
He jerked his head up at her greeting. She had startled him. “Miss Vanderwall, I’m glad you could make it in. This won’t take long.” He was all business as he rose to his feet.
“Any updates on the case?” she asked.
“No.”
“Now, there must be
something
you can tell me. You don’t sit hunched intensely over a laptop like that without something on your mind.”
“I’ll let you know of any progress.”
Makedde didn’t believe that for a second.
He rose and she followed him back to the elevator and stood with her arms crossed on the opposite side as
it took them down several floors. As they rattled down in the otherwise quiet building, Andy turned and smiled weakly at her, shaking his head at the noise. She offered a thin-lipped smile in return. When the doors opened, he led her to an area housing a series of uninhabited holding cells. Along one wall she saw the fingerprinting station; the large black ink pad, and clips for holding the fingerprint forms in place. The wooden surface of the printing table was smeared with the efforts of uncooperative offenders, and the large sink which sat beside the set-up had no doubt once been white, but was now a grimy grey.
“How many separate prints were picked up in the flat?” she asked, throwing her coat over a clean table.
“Several.”
“Several as in…three? Four? Sixteen?”
“ We picked up at least four different clear sets. Happy now?”
“Happier. But I’d be much happier if you,”
stopped treating me like an airhead
, “could tell me more about the progress of the investigation.”
“You were wise to roll up your sleeves,” he said, ignoring her comment and taking her by the wrist. His grip took her by surprise. She didn’t pull away, and let him lead her towards the ink pad. He had a form already sitting in its clips, ready for her prints.
He took her wrist in his left hand and held her thumb with the fingers of his right. He pressed her
thumb to the ink pad and rolled it from one side to the other, thoroughly coating most of its circumference.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to—” Mak began.
“ To get proper prints, I have to do this.”
“Don’t I seem like a cooperative criminal to you, Detective?” she asked.
She sensed subtle embarrassment. “Cooperation has nothing to do with it,” he stated. “I’ve had to redo loads of fingerprints when they weren’t done correctly.”
He twisted her thumb to one side and placed it on the sheet, slowly rolling it across until the complete print was accomplished. They shuffled over to the ink pad together and he thoroughly smeared her index finger in the same way.
Surely I could ink my own hands?
“How do you ever get actual perps to do this?” Makedde asked.
“Crims? Sometimes it takes a few of us.”
“And some considerable persuasion I would imagine.” He looked like he could be quite persuasive when he chose to be. She gazed at his hands as he manipulated hers. She hadn’t noticed before, but his left knuckles were scarred, precisely where the Band-Aids covered his right ones. An ambidextrous bruiser?
“Is that how you cut your hand? Persuading someone?” she asked.
He stiffened. “Nothing like that.”
“Uh huh.” She wasn’t convinced.
They were both silent as he inked and printed her middle, fourth and pinkie fingers. When Senior Sergeant Flynn went to ink her left palm, he moved in closer, his chest pressing into her shoulder, and his face tilted in front of hers. She glanced at his wrinkled shirt collar and the smooth olive skin of his neck, recalling the way he had affected her in the interview room under the mad full moon.
And the way he brushed me off
.
“So, you’re the daughter of a Detective Inspector?”
“Indeed.”
“How long have you been modelling?”
“Started at fourteen, and a couple of years ago I began studying for my PhD in forensic psychology.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No, you’re pulling my arm.”
He let go.
“Right now I need to continue modelling between semesters to pay my way through. Besides, I like the travel.”
He swallowed hard, then smiled. “A shrink, huh?”
“I doubt that shrink is the appropriate term. But I’m not yet a qualified psychologist, no.”
He seemed to muse on that as she inked her own right thumb and brought it over to the sheet. He let
her print it herself, then said, “May I?” before helping her print her index finger.
He was leaning close to her when he said, “So, you’re studying to find interesting ways to get the crims I catch off with some screwy psychobabble?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. You should know as well as I do that few offenders go for the insanity plea and fewer still are acquitted. No, I’m more interested in criminal justice personnel psychology, so I can stop people like you from jumping off buildings after a bad homicide.”
“Very cute.”
She smiled.
After printing her right hand, she walked to the sink and examined a peculiar gritty soap, also smudged with black ink.
“That should get most of it off,” Andy offered.
“I’ll bet,” she countered sceptically, and started scrubbing her hands. “Flynn’s an Irish name, isn’t it?” she asked casually.
“Yup. My family’s been here for a couple of generations, but I’ve got a bit of Irish from way back. Scottish, too.”
“Really? Can you do a Sean Connery?”
“Well, Miss Money Penny…” he said in a rounded Scotch accent.
She felt herself go weak at the knees. She had to get him to stop, or she would be jelly in his hands.
“Beautiful countries; Scotland and Ireland,” she managed to say, grateful that her back was to him. “Have you been?”
“Nope.”
“I guess your work makes it hard to take time off.”
He didn’t respond.
Makedde scrubbed until her hands felt raw before deciding to give up on making them clean. Her skin was pink in spots and vaguely grimy in others. Her nails looked like they’d been done with a black French manicure.
“Since I’ve been so cooperative, maybe you can put a little more effort into finding Mister Wrong,” she said. “I know you don’t have much to go on but—”
“I assure you, we’re on to it.”
“No new leads to his identity?”
The ring?
“No.”
“OK.” She let it rest for the moment. “Just let me know what comes up.” She knew it was pointless to mention the ring before she had any more information. They would have found it in the search and had obviously thought nothing of it. Makedde picked up her coat, grateful that it was black, and started towards the door. What the detective said next stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Would you like to go out sometime?”
For a moment she simply stared at her hand fixed around the door knob.
“Do you ask out all of your witnesses, Detective, or just the ones who are models?” she asked.
“First time, actually. I guessed you probably didn’t have a lot of friends here.”
“I have plenty of friends, thank you,” she fibbed. “So do you, by the looks of things.”
He smiled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Detective Flynn escorted her politely to the elevator.
“Thank you for your help Miss Vanderwall,” he offered coolly as she stepped out.
Makedde felt the urge to apologise for being so terse, but suddenly he was gone. He had taken her completely off guard. What was it with that guy? One minute she wanted to wring his neck and the next moment she wanted to kiss it.
She threw her coat on and walked out to the street. “Do you ask out all your witnesses or just the models?” she mumbled in an irritating impersonation of herself. “Blah-blah-blah.
Idiot
.”