The 3rd Victim

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘You think her husband confronted her?’

  ‘He didn't have to – his suicide was message enough.’

  Sara's head was reeling, though she wasn't sure if it was because of the hatred she felt for the man before her, or the fact that he was actually making sense.

  ‘You have no proof,’ she said.

  But he was shaking his head. ‘Maybe not, but I suspect you do.’

  Oh god, she thought – he knows!

  ‘Eliza wasn't Jim's daughter.’ He swallowed, as if the revelation upset him. ‘This child wasn't the result of the IVF but a natural conception. It's okay, Sara – I know you know what I am talking about because I can see it in your eyes. And that's why Sienna killed her, because she was racked with guilt.’

  Sara's eyes began to water. ‘You're giving my client motive, Mr Hunt, which means you are either working for the prosecution or …’

  ‘Oh don't be so fucking naïve, Sara,’ he came right back at her. ‘I am trying to save your case. I could have provided proof of Sienna's guilt to the DA over a month ago, but obviously I chose not to.’

  ‘You have no proof. This is all speculation.’

  But then his dark eyes met hers and she knew, in that moment, that they were screwed.

  42

  Sara jumped into her car which she'd parked three blocks east of The Liberty. The traffic had eased but not enough for her to achieve the speed she would have liked. She met every red light along the way, her fingers clenched around the steering wheel, her eyes flicking from the road to her cell on the seat beside her, which revealed she had missed four calls in the last three minutes.

  David was home and he must have talked to Stacey. She would have told him a man named Hunt had called her, and so David was probably freaking. But what she had to tell him had to be told in person, so she pulled into the underground garage, swerved into their spot and jumped out to head straight for the garage elevator before pounding the button for ‘up’.

  She hit their floor, immediately seeing the slice of light coming from their open apartment door. And she knew that he was waiting for her, and in that moment she felt eased by his proximity, even the look on his face making her feel comforted, safe. But relief was soon replaced by his fury at her for not calling him.

  ‘God, Sara, where have you been?’

  ‘I'm so sorry. I had a drink … with Daniel Hunt … he was waiting for me outside the office. He convinced me to listen to what he had to say.’ She dropped her bag onto the carpet and melted into his arms, his anger at her subsiding – but his rage at Hunt was now clear.

  ‘What did that asshole do to you?’ The muscles in his arms flexed as he held her back to examine her. ‘I swear to god, Sara, if he hurt you in any way …’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head and looked up at him. ‘Not me, he didn't hurt me, David.’

  He took her hands in his. ‘Then what are you telling me? That he hurt someone else?’

  She shut her eyes, trying to work out how to answer his question. But then she took a breath and realised that she needed to pace herself so that they could make sense of it all, and so she dropped her left hand, still holding on to him with her right and dragged him into the kitchen.

  She pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. ‘Hunt knows about the paternity,’ she began.

  He looked at her, not knowing what to say.

  ‘He knows Jim Walker was not Eliza's father.’ She felt a need to repeat it.

  ‘How? Did Hunt say Davenport admitted to using the wrong seminal specimen by mistake?’

  She shook her head as she tossed him a Heineken and pulled out a glass for her wine. ‘He said Sienna was having an affair. That the IVF was unsuccessful. That Eliza was conceived naturally.’

  David froze. ‘He what?’

  ‘He said she was cheating on her husband.’ She took a long sip of her wine and felt it slip, cool and soothing, down her throat. ‘And that her husband found out, and that he confided in Hunt, and that Jim Walker was gutted, and that he suspected the child his wife was carrying was her lover's, and that he hit such a low that he …’

  ‘Oh god,’ said David.

  And Sara nodded. ‘Hunt said Jim Walker's death was intentional, that he killed himself because he knew. And then Hunt said that Sienna was racked with guilt, that she knew she was to blame for her husband's actions. And then, he said that when Eliza was born – the child that belonged to a man who was not her husband – the guilt she carried was too great, that Eliza represented her betrayal, a reminder of what she had done, so she … so she …’ Sara had trouble saying it.

  ‘He's giving her motive,’ said David.

  Sara nodded, but then her nod turned into a shake. ‘No … I mean, yes … but I am afraid it is worse than that.’

  ‘How in the hell could this be worse?’

  ‘Worse because he has proof.’

  ‘Proof? What proof?’ David was desperate to see it.

  She put down her glass to face him. ‘Hunt said he interrupted Sienna before she had finished what she had intended to do.’

  David's mouth opened in shock. ‘He says he walked in on her killing her baby?’

  ‘No, that's not what I mean. He said that when he arrived the bedroom was bloody but the baby was gone. He said he tried to reason with her, but that it soon became clear that killing her daughter was only half of her plan.’

  ‘What the hell does he mean, only half of her plan?’

  ‘He said that she was planning to take her own life as well.’

  David looked at her, the significance of what she was saying now crashing down around him.

  ‘He said it was an attempted murder-suicide, David,’ Sara continued. ‘That Sienna had disposed of the baby and then set about killing herself.’

  ‘But that's not proof, Sara,’ David finally managed. ‘Just hearsay from the asshole who set this thing in motion in the first place.’

  But the look in her eye told him otherwise. ‘Hunt says that when he came to see her that night, she had sedated herself – heavily. That it wasn't Davenport who administered those sedatives but Sienna, and that Hunt's chance visit had literally saved her life.’

  He met her eye, before falling back onto the counter top behind him. ‘Oh god,’ he said for the second time in minutes. ‘Davenport has gone to Katz with his story.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I went to see him tonight, he was behind closed doors – with the District Attorney.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Sara echoed David.

  David said nothing so she moved toward him. ‘David, this is … disastrous.’

  But she could tell that he was not listening, because his case had just imploded before him – and, worse still, Daniel Hunt had won.

  PART FOUR

  43

  One month later

  It was barely dawn. Esther Wallace heard him before she saw him. The noise was slight but distinguishable given it was different to the myriad noises she was now familiar with – the ones the moors conjured up with a brutal daily relentlessness. She had gotten used to the low hum of the wind. Its voice sang with a dull consistency broken only when it settled at the bottom of a breath or whipped up into a frenzy that reverberated in a scream. This sound was different. It had a sluggish rhythm. Footsteps in wet galoshes – the volume of the squelching increasing as the man finally reached his front door.

  Esther got up from the bed, careful to make as little noise as possible. The cold bit into her skin so she dragged the blanket with her, pulling the sheets up neatly so that the room remained at peace.

  She made it to the living room for his entrance. She could tell it was the heat that surprised him first. He had expected it to be cold. He would have been used to it of course, the cold. She knew men like him. They always preferred winter to summer. It was a form of penance, for sins past.

  He shut the front door behind him as she moved further into the room.

  ‘I let myself in,’ she said, statin
g the obvious.

  He jumped. He met her eye.

  His expression was one of confusion, and then suspicion, and then irritation, and finally rage.

  ‘Who the hell 're ya and what the hell 're you doin' in my cabin?’

  He dropped the bag of bloodied rabbits he was holding in his left hand in order to support the now rising hunting rifle he was holding in his right.

  ‘My name is Esther Wallace,’ she said, looping the blanket over her shoulder before extending her hand.

  He didn't answer, but he did cock the rifle and squint at her warily above the barrel.

  ‘There really is no need for that,’ she said, gesturing at the gun. ‘I hate to rely on a dreadful cliché, but I come in peace.’

  She paused then to consider him: the red cheeks and muddied gumboots, the wisps of gun-metal grey hair trying desperately to escape from the confines of the thick knitted hat that sat tightly on his head.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked. His voice was low and gravelly.

  ‘It's a long time since you had visitors,’ she replied, avoiding his enquiry on purpose. ‘I am sorry. I have been terribly presumptuous, and I am afraid it only gets worse, you see, because … I have come to ask you a favour. I am in great need of your help.’

  ‘You must have the wrong address,’ he said – a quip and quite a clever one, but there was no hint of humour in his stare.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she said again, ‘but there's no mistake.’

  His eyes narrowed again.

  ‘I've come a long way. The least you can do is hear me out,’ she said when he failed to respond. ‘You look cold, tired. I can make us some breakfast and a nice cup of tea.’ She nodded at the rifle, encouraging him to put it down.

  ‘You have some hide,’ he said, but to his credit he lowered his weapon.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she said as she took it upon herself to move forward and pick up the rabbit bag in her finger and thumb. ‘I'll put these on some ice while you take a moment to freshen up.’ She gestured at his boots and his beanie, the latter of which he actually pulled from his head sending the small crystals of snow stuck to it silently to the floor.

  ‘I'll hear you out but then you're gone,’ he said. ‘In case you haven't noticed, I like m'peace.’

  ‘Peace?’ She managed a smile at the thought of it. ‘Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible,’ she said.

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she lifted her finger to silence him before moving slowly toward the stove.

  44

  Madonna Carrera was upset. She had that feeling in her stomach, the one you get when a good thing starts turning bad. She was still in shock from the unexpected shellacking her boss had given her mere hours earlier. It was so out of character. Admittedly his mood had turned a little sour over the past few weeks but he had never spoken to her like that before, never treated her like she was … stupid.

  She had called the girl and got her here, as she had done with regularity over the past week or two. Madonna had no idea why this one needed so much special attention, nor why Dr Davenport seemed so keen in his determination to see her but then treated her like shit.

  She guessed there was something wrong with her, that the thing growing in her belly – a belly that was now so large that a good three inches of it protruded like a flesh-coloured balloon in between her customary grey hoodie and sweat pants – was sick or twisted or in some sort of contorted position which meant the doctor would have all sorts of hell trying to get the damned thing out. And Madonna wished it would come out – fast – so that the girl could go home and bring up her kid behind whatever rock she crawled out from, and never bother Dr Davenport or Madonna again.

  ‘Why does he want me here again?’ asked the girl. She picked at the raw skin around her nonexistent fingernails. She had a ketchup stain on her sweat shirt and a look of disdain on her face. ‘Is there something wrong with me?’ she asked. As she said this, she cradled her middle, and Madonna noted something new in her tone – concern, panic, fear.

  ‘I told you I don't know,’ bit Madonna. But then, seeing the forlorn look in the dishevelled girl's eyes, she decided to tone it down a little. ‘I'm sure there's nothing wrong with you. Dr Davenport is just being digi … digilent.’ She started to pick at her own long acrylics before forcing herself to stop.

  The girl named Sophia nodded. ‘You got kids?’ she asked after a pause.

  Fabulous – now the girl who had never given any hint of personality decided she wanted to talk.

  ‘No.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘Me neither, but soon.’

  Madonna pointed at her stomach with her pen, her face expressing the soundless form of the international comment known as ‘Duh!’

  The girl lowered her eyes and Madonna thought that she might be about to cry. Madonna had been mean and she was not a mean person. Her mother had always said that Madonna had been born with a very big heart, and that she should remember this every time she came across someone less fortunate than herself – which, not surprisingly, happened quite a lot.

  ‘When I first started here, I was scared I would stuff up,’ she said – the only thing she could think of to say.

  Sophia looked up to meet her eye.

  ‘Dr Davenport called me Miss Carrera and it made me feel special and nervous at the very same time. Now he calls me Madonna, because we've gotten to know and respect each other.’ Wishful thinking. ‘And now I feel better, because I've been here a while.’

  ‘Do you call him Dick?’ asked the girl.

  How weird a fucking question was that? ‘Well no,’ Madonna said, bristling just a little, her eyes flitting back to her computer in the hope the gesture would put the girl off.

  ‘Was your mom religious?’ the girl persisted.

  Madonna exhaled. ‘I don't see that that is any of your …’ But then her eyes met Sophia's once again. ‘My mom is Catholic. She goes to church every Sunday.’

  ‘But you were named after the other Madonna, the one with the kids from Africa,’ said Sophia.

  Madonna said nothing, but once again remembered her mother's directive and offered the girl a half-smile.

  ‘Would you be shocked if I told you I was a virgin?’ asked the girl.

  Madonna met her eye again. ‘The Angel Gabriel back in business?’ She started to laugh at her own joke but then noticed the girl appeared to be deadly serious.

  ‘I'm scared,’ said the girl, looking up once again, her wide brown eyes glistening. ‘They say it hurts but you forget, but that's because of what you've gained.’

  Madonna was not sure how to respond. ‘A baby's good,’ she attempted after a pause. ‘As far as gains go, I mean.’

  But then the door to Dr Davenport's surgery opened and a reluctant Sophia stood to follow him into his rooms. As she passed she shook her head toward Madonna, and then Madonna felt a chill rise from deep inside of her, and then the phone began to ring.

  45

  ‘I've said it before and I'll say it again, Sienna Walker does not suffer from depression.’

  Barbara Wong McGregor was one of Boston's most respected family psychologists. While her specialty was children, she had also spent years studying and diagnosing women with post-partum depression. David had used her before – most notably a few years ago when he defended a thirteen-year-old boy accused of killing his mother – which meant Wong McGregor was not just an expert but a friend, and they knew they needed to surround themselves with friends at this point, a mere six weeks from trial.

  No depression, she had said. David had not expected anything else, but if Hunt and Davenport were going to milk the murder-suicide theory in court, they needed a psych consult who was well and truly on their side.

  They had decided to fight – not just because they believed in their client but because they knew, in order for Sienna to do what Daniel Hunt had suggested, she would have had to have been suffering from the worst form of psychological despair, and as Barbara had explained after each and every one of
her four meetings with their client, Sienna was not depressed – at least not in the way Hunt was claiming, not enough to murder her baby before attempting to kill herself.

  They were at Myrtle's. They were nursing beers – and in Nora's case a shandy – despite the fact that Mick had no licence to serve alcohol, a discrepancy they all overlooked considering the Boston PD's Head of Homicide and his partner were now part of their little late night group.

  Barbara's eyes narrowed as she put her beer on the table and shuffled in her seat. ‘You know, this woman is incredibly interesting,’ she said then, ‘from a psychological point of view, I mean.’

  David loosened his tie. He understood Barbara was trying to find something that would help them, so she was most likely firing off observations hoping one might hit the mark. ‘How so?’ he asked.

  Barbara opened the file on her lap. ‘I know you are going to think I am some sort of psychological nerd when I say this, but she is an extraordinary subject. She is just so …’ Barbara attempted to find the word, ‘… lucid. She has this uncanny ability to break queries down and see your questions at face value – which is very uncommon, believe you me.’ She pushed her shoulder-length black hair behind her ear.

  ‘We've found the same thing,’ said Sara. ‘So where does that kind of thinking come from? Is it inherent or learnt?’

  ‘In her case I think it is a little of both. I assume you are all aware of her background?’

  ‘We know she grew up privileged,’ said Joe. ‘David told us her grandfather was some sort of artistic genius.’

  Barbara nodded before turning to David. ‘Do you want me to break it down for you – in psychological terms, I mean?’ she asked.

  David nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, although to be honest he thought their time would be better spent getting Barbara's opinion on the psychological profile of a man like Daniel Hunt. He knew Hunt was beyond smart but he also knew there had to be a psychological flaw in there somewhere, and he could not help but think it was essential that they find it. ‘But then we need to talk about Hunt,’ he said.