The 3rd Victim

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘Hey,’ said Joe Mannix as he slipped into the seat across from David.

  ‘Hey.’

  Late last night Joe had texted David suggesting they hook up early at Myrtle's. And David, the pure sense of sorrow surrounding the macabre discovery of that little girl's body diluting his anger, had agreed, knowing that in the end Joe was just doing his job, and that cases like this were as hard on Joe, as the principal detective on the case, as they were on the lead counsel for the defence.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ Joe said as he took off his scuffed leather gloves and signalled Mick for a coffee. He gestured toward Rigotti's front page. ‘I should have told you what we had.’

  David shook his head. ‘It's okay. I know you were just doing your job, but …’ He needed to confirm it. ‘Is Rigotti right when he says they found my client's blood in her daughter's bedroom?’

  Joe didn't hesitate. ‘Yes.’

  David exhaled.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ said Joe for the second time.

  David nodded, as they both took a sip of their coffees and fell into silence, until Joe asked the next obvious question.

  ‘Have you spoken to your client?’

  His client – Sienna – the woman he believed, or at the very least wanted to despite this new and incredibly damaging evidence against her.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘but not for want of trying. I went straight from Sienna's house to County, but visiting hours were over and a security breach by a male detainee up on six meant the place went into a temporary lockdown – no one in, no one out.’ David took a breath. ‘So then I went to go back to the office, knowing that my client would probably find out about the discovery of her daughter's body from some deputy or news report or another prisoner passing it on, but I found myself heading for home instead. I relieved Stacey early, spent the afternoon hugging my kid.’

  Joe nodded once again. ‘I spent all of yesterday evening pitching curve balls to my boys in the rain.’ His shoulders slumped just a little. ‘Except for Joe Junior. He thinks pitching balls with his dad is naff.’

  ‘They grow up too fast, Joe.’

  But Joe just shrugged, as if grateful they were growing up at all.

  ‘The Kat's gunning for an Academy Award for this one,’ he said after a pause. Joe pointed at the front page photo of the DA – the one aligned with another shot of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Eliza Walker.

  ‘Don't think I've ever hated him as much as I did yesterday.’

  ‘What'd he say to you?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Probably not.’

  David took a sip of his coffee, the steam rising slowly around his face. ‘The blood on that nightshirt, it's going to belong to my client, isn't it?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Probably.’

  He cut to the chase. ‘You're wondering why I haven't ditched her.’

  ‘I didn't say that.’

  ‘But the Kat's case is solid.’

  ‘The fuck can't stop smiling.’

  ‘And you – how do you see it, Joe?’

  ‘I never make a call until all the evidence is in, David, and the preliminary forensics won't be in until tomorrow.’

  ‘But if you had to make a call.’

  ‘Not my place, and besides, you and I both know, in the business we are in, things are not always as they seem.’

  David placed his mug on the table, now wondering if Joe had found something out of kilter. And when Joe craned his neck toward the front of the café as if to check that they were beyond earshot, the wondering turned into hope, and he prayed that there was something – anything – for him to hold on to.

  ‘Did you see Daniel Hunt outside her house yesterday afternoon?’

  Hunt … Hunt.

  ‘No.’ David sat up in his seat, trying not to let that hope turn into anything resembling excitement. ‘Where was he?’

  ‘In a black sedan parked on a far corner. The glass was tinted but I thought I caught a glimpse of him when he cranked the window before taking off in the opposite direction.’

  ‘You ran the plate?’ said David, anticipating Joe's next move.

  Joe nodded. ‘It was registered to Hunt and Associates.’

  David returned the nod, wanting to give Joe his hypothesis – that this was bigger than Eliza – but understanding that he needed to give Joe some breathing space.

  ‘These people still creep me out, David.’

  Still David said nothing.

  ‘I know I've never been one to warm to men like Hunt or that conceited prick Dick Davenport, but their whole attitude …’

  David looked up. ‘You interviewed Davenport?’

  Joe nodded.

  David continued to tread carefully. ‘And you discussed my client's emotional state?’

  Joe sighed, knowing his friend was hedging. ‘Jesus, David, we just saw a two month old dragged from the confines of a drainpipe. I'd say the time for tiptoeing has passed.’

  A grateful David nodded. ‘Is he going to brand her with the PPD?’

  ‘If he did, would it be of help to you?’

  It was Joe's turn to probe. He was basically asking David if he intended to go with a diminished responsibility defence, which, after all, would be the obvious way to go.

  ‘No,’ said David, knowing he could trust Joe implicitly. He could see the surprise in Joe's expression.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At the very least, you'll be throwing the Kat a loop.’

  ‘Give him something else to do besides looking at his own reflection.’

  Joe managed a smile before his expression turned serious once again. ‘In answer to your question about Davenport's call on the depression, I'm not sure which way he'll play it given he wouldn't hand over your client's medical file without a warrant – which has been issued, by the way.’

  ‘But your gut?’ David fished a little deeper.

  ‘My gut tells me that while the doc plays all happy families, he'd be quite comfortable with selling your girl up the river.’

  This was not what David was expecting – or then again, maybe it was. ‘How might he do that?’

  ‘By suggesting the dead husband was the one who wanted the baby.’

  ‘He said Sienna was against having the kid?’

  ‘He said the IVF was the husband's idea.’

  ‘IVF?’

  ‘The kid was conceived in-vitro. Your client didn't tell you?’

  ‘I've only had the chance to have one decent interview with her, Joe. We had a lot to cover.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘I have to ask, David, are you considering requesting a pass on this one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because you feel Weeks locked you in?’

  ‘Because I believe she's innocent.’

  Joe said nothing, the pause extending as if he was deciding which way to go. ‘You need my help?’ he asked after a time.

  David felt the relief rush over him. While Joe was on the side of truth, it was rare for him to outright volunteer his services on a case he was investigating – unless he had reservations about the way things were playing out.

  ‘I want to know more about Jim Walker's accident.’

  ‘You want to tell me why?’

  ‘Maybe best for you we hold off on that until you see what you can find out.’

  Joe nodded, understanding that David, as much for Joe's sake as he own, was determined to play things carefully.

  Joe got to his feet and put on his jacket. ‘I gotta go,’ he said.

  David sighed. ‘And I have to see my client.’

  Joe pulled his car keys from his pocket, before hesitating. ‘You might want to check on your client's medical reports – not the one Davenport is hoarding, but the ones from Mass Gen and County.’

  David got to his feet. ‘What am I looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘Her blood had to come from somewhere, David.’

 
David knew exactly what Joe was suggesting – that Sienna must have cut herself for her blood to be left at the scene.

  ‘You're putting yourself out on a limb here, Joe.’

  ‘The kid was stuffed up a drainpipe, David.’

  And David nodded once again, knowing there was no more to be said.

  29

  Dr Richard Davenport took off his shoes. It was early. He was alone. His office curtains were drawn against the earliest signs of sun. He was wearing socks – fine knit, but incredibly warm, one hundred per cent wool socks that cost him close to forty dollars from Barney's on Huntington. He flexed his toes, grinding them into the plush Italian rug. He paced, releasing his stresses through his extremities and pondering on what had happened and what it meant to their plans.

  The body had been found – just as he knew it would be. He knew that his friend would leave nothing to chance and yet still Davenport marvelled at his efficiency. Of course Sienna was screwed – had been the moment she … well, the moment she got ‘screwed’. Davenport was not a crude individual but the truth of it was obvious – Sienna Walker was fucked the moment she fucked her husband. It was a serious case of poor judgment, and now it was time to pay.

  Davenport knew he had done as instructed. His handling of the interview with Mannix and McKay had been close to impeccable. He had stumbled somewhat at the mention of the midwife, at the suggestion Eliza was not his ‘patient’, but he doubted his hesitations were seen as anything but attempts to uphold his loyalty to Sienna. He had made all the right noises, issued all the right protests and, as of half an hour ago, surrendered Sienna Walker's carefully adjusted medical file as per the warrant's request.

  Most importantly, he had upheld the initial impression that he and Daniel Hunt, as friends of the late Jim Walker, were desperate to protect Sienna. This impression was essential to maintaining control of the case and, as a flow-on, the future. If Davenport could manage to keep the authorities diverted, then his friend should be more than capable of making sure their franchise was protected – despite his situation, and the secrecy their business required.

  Davenport moved to the window. He took a breath and flexed his toes and looked out onto Beacon Hill where the exhaust from the steady flow of early morning traffic created a fog between himself and the Public Gardens. He saw the scene before him as symbolic – the gardens his destination, the cars and their fumes hazards to his reaching the place he needed to go. They were so close. This was their last deal in this location. But he would be a fool to turn a blind eye to the latest problem before him – the one he had yet to mention to his business partner and friend.

  It had to do with the girl, and what he feared he was about to discover about her. The problem wasn't the girl specifically – in fact, she was a non-issue. Sophia was only nineteen, but she was healthy and stupid and, most importantly, had no emotional attachment to the child that grew inside her – which is the way it should be, the way it had to be, to avoid any unnecessary fuss when it came to the final exchange.

  The problem was with the foetus. He had questioned the radiologist's initial report. He had conducted a second ultrasound of his own which turned out to be a fruitless exercise because of the baby's position. And then, still in doubt – or perhaps denial – he had decided that the only way to find out for sure was to extract some foetal blood. That was a tricky business, extracting the blood without harming the foetus, but Davenport was an expert and he had taken extreme care and he was sure the foetus was still developing nicely.

  Now he would have to wait, probably until Monday considering today was Friday, but at least the results would be definitive because DNA does not lie. If the results came back as he prayed they would not but suspected they would, he knew there would be no time to ponder on how this had happened, he knew he would have to deal with the reality that what was done was done, and that the unexpected setback of mammoth proportions would need to be addressed as a matter of priority.

  Davenport was not afraid of him, or at least, he had never been in a situation where fear could enter the equation. But he was in that potential situation now, and he had to admit, there was a spark of something – not fear, but certainly apprehension, maybe even trepidation – the same feeling Sienna Walker must have experienced when she got her first glimpse of the truth.

  But Davenport stopped himself there, reasoning that Sienna's circumstances were nothing like his own. He had done the right thing by not mentioning this potential issue until it was confirmed. He reminded himself that he was a winner and his performance for the team had been flawless – until now.

  Davenport moved back to his desk, and heard Madonna enter the outer office and place her designer knock-off handbag inside her bottom right-hand drawer. He moved to his desk and decided to call pathology and see how quickly he could expedite the results.

  And as the call connected he made a silent prayer that a miracle would occur in between the pathology lab and his office, preventing the catastrophe that was rearing up behind him like a tsunami carving its way toward the shore.

  30

  It was 9 am and Nashua Street Suffolk County Jail was open for business. The cool air came from the river, a steady breeze whipping up over the surface of the adjacent Charles and pummelling through the jail's glass front doors every time they were opened – which was often.

  Sara stopped pacing in front of him. She moved a wisp of chestnut hair that had escaped her low bun away from her face as she fixed her eyes on his.

  ‘I'm not sure how we should play this, David,’ she said.

  ‘Only one way to play it, Sara, and that is straight up.’

  ‘We should have been the ones to tell her.’

  ‘It was out of our control.’

  She pushed the curl back once again. ‘Sometimes our system of justice has a lot to answer for.’

  But he had no time to respond to that truism as the deputy signalled them for their security passes and they moved quickly through the partition.

  They met her in the interview room. The walls looked whiter than ever, as if they had been repainted in an effort to hide the particles of despair that clung to them like parasites underneath.

  She did not look up. She was thinner and smaller and paler. Her shoulder bones protruded from under her too-bright top, her arms hung like stripped branches of oak, dull and lifeless beside her.

  Sara moved around the table and crouched low. She took her hand – Sara's mocha skin dark against the skeletal fingers of their client.

  ‘Sienna, I am so sorry,’ said Sara.

  Sienna did not respond.

  ‘I know this is – beyond horrible,’ Sara went on, ‘and I know I could kneel here arguing that at least you can put your daughter to rest, but if it were me,’ she swallowed, ‘if it were Lauren, it would make no difference, so I am not going to pretend to …’

  Sara's voice started to falter so David moved further into the room.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ he repeated to his client. And everything froze as the Catholic-raised David remembered something a brother at St Stephen's Prep had once told him – that sorrow looks back, worry looks around and faith looks up.

  She looked up at him. ‘Were you there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered.

  It looked as if she was about to ask him another question, but in all honesty what could she have asked? How her baby looked? Did she suffer?

  Joe had been right, all the rules, the decorum, the platitudes, the usual script … it all went out the window at times like this. Her child was stuffed inside an aluminium pipe, and now they must do anything and everything possible to see that the culprit paid.

  Ten minutes later, after David had requested water for his client, he knew that it was time to move on. There was a lot to cover and as callous as it may sound, he knew they had to grill Sienna on the new pieces of discovery that acted as evidentiary nails in her coffin. Sienna had never once pointed a finger at the man David suspected was behind these cal
culated acts of malevolence, but once again, as Joe had stated, the time for tiptoeing was up. If David was right, two Walkers had gone to their graves because of Daniel Hunt – and there was no way on earth he was going to give that son-of-a-bitch the opportunity to make it three.

  ‘Sienna,’ he began, ‘I am going to tell you what we've learnt in the last twenty-four hours and I need you to listen to me before you respond. None of it is good. In fact most of it is devastating and incredibly damaging to your defence. But you're going to have to hear it, and then you're going to have to respond by explaining it the best you can. We believe in you, Sienna, and that's why you need to be a hundred per cent honest with us, and I'm not just talking about the evidence the prosecution have on you already, I am talking about the hidden truths, what they are yet to discover – the stuff you either know or suspect to be correct, whether you believe it will incriminate you or not.’ David took a breath. ‘You are seriously behind the eight ball here, Sienna, largely because Sara and I and the rest of our small defence team are probably the only people on the planet who believe in your innocence. After yesterday, the rest of them want to see you rot in hell. Or more specifically, in a two-by-four cell at Massachusetts Correctional, which is exactly what will happen unless you tell us the absolute truth.’

  He waited for an objection from Sara but he did not get one. In fact, she moved away from their client and joined David on the opposite side the table. And David was grateful, not because he needed to make this an ‘us against her’ scenario, but because he knew Sara was key to supporting Sienna through the lead-up and eventual presentation of their case at trial, and part of that support meant being tough when it was necessary – and never had it been more necessary than it was right now.

  Sienna swallowed, her tears now falling onto the collar of her tangerine uniform. Her lips parted in preparation for some sort of response, but then she closed them again and simply nodded for David to go on.

  ‘The forensic evidence at the crime scene – blood on the carpet close to her cot – indicates Eliza was cradled during and after her throat was cut. The ME believes that she bled out, in the bedroom, and that her killer was holding her as she did. The nightshirt she was wrapped in when they found her body up that gutter pipe most likely belongs to you, and it is covered in blood spatter which we believe will confirm the ME's suppositions – that Eliza was rocked to death.’