by Ian Edward
‘A detective?” Markham guessed.
‘You got it.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Adam.
‘Not at all. Anyway, I heard from around town this didn’t exactly help that attitude thing.’
‘It must have been soon after, that he came to Northern Rocks,’ Markham said.
‘He wanted to make a fresh start,’ said O’Malley, ‘but I don’t expect he’ll start getting all buddy/buddy with our detectives any time soon.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Adam confirmed.
‘Well, here’s hoping the sea air makes a difference. Kirby can be difficult, but he’s a bloody good operator.’ O’Malley changed the subject with an easy, natural shift of internal gears. ‘I gather you two have brought yourselves up to date with our mermaid.’
‘Yes. And we appreciate you making the time to see us,’ Adam said.
O’Malley waved the comment aside. ‘No probs. In fact, I’m glad you’re here.’ Adam and Markham had settled into the guest chairs.
‘Let me bring you up to full speed,’ O’Malley said. ‘It’s been four months since our Jane Doe was fished out of the water in Morrissey. It’s as though she dropped right out of the sky. It’s been known to happen with much older human remains but it’s practically unheard of with a teen, or someone who’s been in the water a short time. At that age, parents, teachers, boyfriends, someone must know she’s missing. But apparently no one does.’
‘And the facial reconstruction?’ asked Adam.
‘It’s expensive, difficult, time consuming work. But with the amount of time that’s passed, no leads, and the artist’s sketch failing to ignite any interest, it’s one of the few avenues left. I know you wanted to visit the anatomist while you were in town, which works in well as I’m due out there for an update.’
On the way, O’Malley explained that the reconstruction work took about a month. Their visit was timely as this was the end of the fourth week. ‘As I said earlier I’m glad you’re here,’ O’Malley repeated as he drove into the grounds of the university. Leafy, landscaped recreational areas dotted the compound of stately buildings, the architecture reflecting an earlier age. ‘Your Northern Rocks mystery girl has come at a critical time, so I’m glad your phone call brought it to my attention. Otherwise, given that your case is only a few days old, the similarities might not have been as obvious for a while yet.’
‘You said a critical time?’ Markham’s attention had been drawn away from the grounds outside the car window.
‘Yes. I’ve just been looking into another case, two months ago on the New South Wales mid-coast. Another drowning victim, a young man of approximately nineteen – naked, no ID, but initially thought to be an English backpacker out here on vacation who’d been reported missing.’
‘But he wasn’t,’ Adam guessed.
‘No. Three weeks after the body was found, the backpacker actually turned up. He’d been in W.A., didn’t bother telling anyone he’d taken off on a four week stint as a jackeroo on an isolated property. So our New South Wales John Doe was back to square one, with no-one knowing who he was or where he’s from. I wondered about the chance of a connection with the Morrissey Mermaid case. I just got back yesterday from visiting the scene and discussing it with the local detective down there. And then you phoned up, Adam, with your Northern Rocks floater.’
‘Two might’ve been a coincidence,’ Markham said, ‘but not three.’
‘You wouldn’t be in town if you thought even two was coincidence,’ O’Malley said. ‘Me, I don’t believe in coincidence, never have, not where unnecessary death and unidentified bodies are concerned.’
‘What do the two State Coroners think?’ asked Adam.
‘They haven’t got a damn clue.’
The receptionist for the Anatomy and Histology department took Adam, Markham and O’Malley through a maze of white walled corridors. They were led into the neatly arranged laboratory of Dr. Mira Sukomoto. She was a petite woman, elfin faced and dark haired. Her large, brown, expressive eyes immediately struck Adam as the eyes of a soulful artist rather than those of a clinical anatomist. Having received an advance call from O’Malley, Mira was expecting them and they were led straight away to the workbench. Here, the simulated reconstruction of the Mermaid’s face, hair and skull sat like an eerie sculpture.
‘It must take enormous patience to recreate someone’s appearance like this,’ Adam said.
Mira responded with an appreciative smile. ‘And then some. Especially when reconstructing a face from skeletal remains. In a situation like this, I begin by duplicating the skull in silicon so that it’s an almost exact replica, and I’m talking about an accuracy rate that needs to be between 99 and 100 percent. Once that’s achieved I begin placing simulations of all the facial muscles onto the skull, along with glands, skin and hair. From which I make a cast of epoxy resin.’
‘And we end up with a reasonable likeness that someone may have a chance of recognising,’ O’Malley added.
Mira placed her hands on the facial cast. ‘A subject like Angelina, with skull and many features damaged but still intact, makes my task easier and the likeness much closer.’
‘Angelina?’
Mira smiled at Adam. ‘I detest this term, the Mermaid. This was once a living, breathing human being, a very vibrant young woman. I call her Angelina, because it’s a beautiful, feminine name, and because she had the gorgeous face of an angel, don’t you think?’
The three men muttered their agreement.
Adam walked around the bench, examining the cast from different angles. The detail in the sculpture was extraordinary. Looking again at Mira’s eyes, Adam realised there was as much artistry and sensitivity in her work as there was science.
‘I was just taking photos of the cast. It helps me put my work into a kind of visual perspective, before making final adjustments. Perhaps a digital print would be of use to the detective?’ Mira glanced at O’Malley for his approval.
‘That’s fine,’ he said.
‘So now there are others like this one?’ Mira watched as Adam placed the print in his wallet.
‘It appears that way, Mira,’ said O’Malley.
‘So sad,’ the anatomist’s voice was a whisper, and Adam sensed this brilliant young woman had developed a true empathy for the girl she’d named Angelina, ‘that no one seems to have known or cared about one so beautiful.’
‘Someone knew her and cared for her,’ O’Malley said. ‘It isn’t possible to go through sixteen, seventeen years, grow up, without anyone knowing you and missing you.’
O’Malley was right, of course, thought Adam. But the simple fact was no one had come forward to identify or report missing either Angelina or the other two, more recent cases. Even if they’d been runaways then at some stage they would have been reported missing.
Who were they?
On the way back, O’Malley stressed that he wanted to keep in close contact with Adam and Markham. If, in another week, the Northern Rocks girl hadn’t been identified through Adam’s efforts, then O’Malley wanted to take the investigation fully under his wing, along with “Angelina” and the N.S.W. John Doe. ‘Once I’m certain there are enough probable links between the three, I want to set up a task force,’ he explained.
Such an investigation would be larger than anything Adam had been involved in. ‘If the ID traces still fail to turn anything up, then where else do we go with something like this?’
‘There’s all kinds of intangibles we can start tracking,’ O’Malley said. ‘Maybe these three knew each other, went to school together. We can look for abandoned cars in each of the areas they were found, and source the owners. We can show the pictures of all three to motel/hotel workers in each of the three areas.’ O’Malley’s passion for solving the mystery was evident. ‘The first initiative will be to consider lines of enquiry taken on any similar cases.’
‘Could you explain that?’
‘We’ll speak to the Feds here and to Interpol, as
k about cases involving multiple John and Jane Does. We’ll see what lines of enquiry the police took on those cases. Hopefully, it will provide us with some tips. By the way, Bennett, visiting Meteorology to pinpoint where the girl entered the water? Good idea. You might just turn up something useful.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The visit to Meteorology was the main reason for Adam’s trip, but he was glad he’d arranged to meet with O’Malley and Dr. Sukomoto. The trip had proved educational. Now a link seemed certain given there was not one, not two, but three of these unidentified drowning victims.
The Northern Rocks council building was in a quiet, leafy street just behind the main town centre but the offices inside were busy. Groups of people queued at various counters.
For a small search fee a clerk, after a short wait, provided a folder with the council approved Institute plans. Kate sat on one of the public utility chairs and spread the plans over her lap.
At first, nothing struck her as unusual. The landscaped grounds, the parking station and the triple-level main building were all as they should be. But then something began niggling at her. Something – she wasn’t sure what – didn’t look right.
What was it her subconscious mind thought it was seeing –or not seeing?
Later, she spoke to Betty on her cell as she drove back to the Institute. ‘I don’t know, Betty, maybe I’ve gone off half assed about this whole damn thing. You were right about not saying anything to James. Rhonda seemed the most obvious person to plant that virus, but why would she? Absolutely no reason, and there’s no mention of any such thing in her diary.’
‘Maybe,’ said Betty. ‘You’re sure singing a different tune to the other day.’
‘Okay. So I’ve been running hot and cold again this week.’
‘You tend to do that.’
‘You think I’m totally paranoid. Go on, say it, you might as well.’
‘Actually, no. What you said made some sense. And I’ve read through the diary. The Rhonda I knew was the kind of person to wander through an organisation and pick up vibes that weren’t evident to everyone else. Reading between the lines, she reacted to something her subconscious picked up on. Something about the activity that didn’t seem right.'
‘You’re starting to sound like me.’
‘Conspiracy theories are catching,’ Betty joked.
‘I don’t have a conspiracy theory…’
‘No? You think Rhonda programmed this virus to activate if she missed a few log-ins. Now you’re curious about her road crash, and you’ve gone tearing off and obtained council plans…?’
‘Okay, so I think something stinks in the State of Denmark.’ It was the feisty, cheeky Kate again.
‘Do me a favour, Kate. Be careful whom you speak to about this. And please keep those council plans to yourself, okay? Apart from anything else, it’ll reflect badly on A.B.C.S. if anyone finds out you’re snooping about, and James would be furious.’
‘You sound worried.’
‘I am. Listen, Kate, Rhonda Lagan was a smart woman but she was no troublemaker and no risk taker. If she smelled a rat, I’m starting to think that means there most likely is one.’
Kate said she understood. ‘One further thing,’ Betty said. ‘You know that Westmeyer phoned James yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yes, I was there when he placed the call.’
‘Okay. James would’ve phoned you but he’s been absolutely flat chat. He asked me to let you know the conversation went OK. Basically, he reinforced what you’d already told Westmeyer and placated him. As you know, James was planning another trip up there anyway. Under the circumstances, he’s rearranged his plans and he’s coming today.’
‘Okay.’
‘James will see Westmeyer as soon as he arrives. He’ll call you after that and arrange to get together.’
‘All good,’ Kate said, ending the call as she drove into the Institute grounds. She left the building plans in her glove compartment and locked the car. It was as she passed through the front entrance, waving to one of Tony Collosimo’s assistants, that she felt a jolt to her senses.
All of a sudden, crystal clear in her mind’s eye, she could see what it was about the building that did not mirror the design.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rangers Ron Mahoney and Trish Watts started out early, the Bell Ranger thundering across the deep blue of a cloudless Northern Territory sky. Once again Trish scanned the plains below, the gyroscope bringing into sharp focus the dense vegetation of freshwater mangroves around the riverbank.
They passed the abandoned Range Rover. ‘We should deviate from yesterday’s path.’ Mahoney shouted to be heard over the chop of the blades.
‘Deviate where?’
‘How about the mud flats to the north? There’s plenty of small tributaries and lagoons up there.’
‘You think the croc hunters went that way? And that Greg and Walter followed?’
‘Who knows? We have to try something different.’
‘Okay. After that, we can return via the river.’
Both gasped as a large flock of black winged stilts appeared suddenly in their path, flying dangerously close to the chopper as if deliberately dicing with death. Mahoney jerked the ‘copter sideways, an unnecessary reflex action as it turned out. It sent a roaring rush of wind through the cabin.
Mahoney cursed. Then, righting the chopper, he veered to the north of the river whilst maintaining an overall directional path toward the gulf.
They hadn’t gone far when Trish’s binoculars framed a lone figure walking as though in a trance across the plains. ‘Someone’s down there!’
‘Greg and Walter?’
‘Can’t tell, but it’s just one person. About 10 degrees left.’
Mahoney turned the Bell Ranger and as they swooped lower, over the mangrove plains, he saw the approaching figure. One person? He felt a stab of apprehension. They wanted to find two men – not one. Two.
Now the lone figure stopped altogether, head raised, and waved, slow motion-like. ‘He’s absolutely exhausted,’ Trish observed.
Mahoney chose a stretch of flat, solid looking ground and he brought the chopper down. ‘It’s Walter,’ Trish said, the gyroscope image now clear enough to distinguish his features.
Later, they would hear from Walter how he’d forced himself to stay awake through that agonising final night in the wilderness, at times forcing his eyes apart with his fingers, as he kept moving. By the time they found him he’d begun the descent into delirium.
At first he hadn’t even recognised the rangers. ‘Need…to get to…Rover…’ He gasped for breath between each word.
‘Let’s get him to the chopper, give him water,’ Trish said over her shoulder to Mahoney.
After he had managed a few feeble sips from the canteen, Trish knelt down beside the tracker, touching his shoulder. ‘Walter, what happened? Where’s Greg?’
‘Greg…’He sputtered as though the word had caught in his throat like a wind blown thing.
‘Walter, where is Greg?’
‘Dead…’ And then he tipped forward, Trish managing to catch his shoulders, supporting him and preventing his head from hitting the ground.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Bureau of Meteorology records data on weather patterns and the topography of the oceans off the coastline of Australia. In relation to the oceans, the Bureau tracks wind speed in knots; size of swells and speed of currents in metres; direction of swells; satellite cloud photos, weather maps and analysis charts on specific areas of coast. Adam knew the Bureau played a vital role in shipping, boating, commercial fishing, offshore oil drilling and in search and rescue operations.
Charts and photos littered the desk of the Brisbane Bureau’s senior oceanographer, Terry Donaldson, a man whose appearance was made particularly noticeable if not striking by a head of thick, tight curls. An expressive face revealed the man's passion for the ocean.
He indicated the charts on his desk as he spoke to Adam and Markh
am. ‘What do you gentlemen know about eddies?’
Markham shrugged. ‘Layman stuff. Areas of water with a kind of circular movement.’
‘The same,’ said Adam.
‘They are slow moving warm waters that rotate anti-clockwise, where the current along the eastern seaboard separates from the coast. It’s the water between these eddies and the coast that can up-swell by two hundred metres or more, and where the direction and speed of the current are dependent on highly variable factors, one of which of course, is wind.’
Adam’s eyes followed as Donaldson’s right hand rested, briefly, on the computer printout that lay amongst the desk papers. ‘I’ve already looked over your crime scene report and cross-matched it with the relevant weather pattern. During the twenty four hours prior to the body’s discovery there was a strong wind blowing onshore, building into storm conditions that travelled in south west from the Coral Sea.’ Adam recalled the storm that night as Donaldson continued: ‘That kind of wind activity piles up the water, making high tides higher than normal, and it was the second high tide of the day that washed the body onto the beach.’ Donaldson pinpointed an area on the map that adorned his north wall, ‘…and your medical examination, Brian, showed the body as being in the water for approximately twenty four hours.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Combining that with the direction and estimated knot speed of the current, and backtracking, puts your victim at having entered the water within a five hundred metre radius of this longitude and latitude.’
