Blood Born

by Kathryn Fox

  “That may not be so easy. The current affairs shows are all over Noelene Harbourn, claiming police harassment and mentally ill accusers. You know the drill. Exclusive interview, and all that goes with it.”

  “I can just see it.” Kate downed another pappadam back at the table. “At least the exclusive means the opposition will run an anti-Harbourn story.”

  “If you’ve got time, I recorded it. Might give you something if the mother slips up on camera.”

  Kate returned her plate to the bench and the pair watched the news report, followed by the interview. Noelene Harbourn was dressed in lime chiffon for her moment in the spotlight. She described how the family troubles had started when her drunk, abusive husband attacked her with a knife while his stepkids were asleep. In his stupor, as she described it, he tripped on the coffee table and the knife fatally pierced his chest. In the background, tacky reenactment style, a blurry female figure screamed at the sight and children ran out of bedrooms.

  “What she doesn’t tell you is how like bloody Caesar’s assassins every kid was. They all put their hands on the knife while it was in the old bloke’s chest. The mother swore it was in grief and shock at what had happened to their father. It was more likely to stop police from finding out what really happened. That family sticks together, no matter what.”

  “Was he violent?”

  “Not according to his former wife. She claimed Noelene Harbourn enjoyed more than the occasional drink and would beat him with whatever she could get her hands on.”

  The same footage of the brothers before and after release appeared on the screen, along with collages of them in earlier times.

  “Can you pause that?” Kate disappeared out the front door and returned with a box of files. “The one with the mole on his chin is Gary, the eldest and the gang leader.”

  “How many others are there?”

  “In total, six boys and three girls, with Gary, Bruce, Rick, Patrick, aka Paddy, Keith, Savannah, Amber, and Tiarna. Ian’s currently serving three years for robbing a gun store. They range from eight to thirty. That mother’s womb is in and out more often than an accordion.” She sorted through the box and removed a manila folder. “Among them they have over twenty-five convictions for armed robbery, aggravated assault, extortion, drug and firearm offenses. Prison’s got a revolving door on it just for them, thanks to bleeding heart judges.”

  “At the time of Giverny’s rape,” Anya said, “Gary must have had a beard.”

  “She didn’t remember seeing a mole and we assumed it was because it was dark and she didn’t get a chance. We thought Keith, the middle one, was the only one who had a beard. Why didn’t anyone think to check?”

  More photos were pulled out and laid on the floor. Some of them were taken outside court and were accompanied by lengthy charge sheets. Facial hair made both of these men appear more menacing outside court. Anya wondered what legal advice they had been given. Usually, defendants were clean-shaven, to give the impression of respectability for judges and juries. It was the same reason they wore suits.

  “This is Phil clean-shaven for trial,” Kate said.

  Anya didn’t follow the logic. Why would one grow a beard when facing trial?

  “Surely some jurors wouldn’t find that face sympathetic.” She pointed to the screen image of the oldest brother.

  Kate crouched down and grabbed another photo. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. See in this other one. It’s their tactic. I’m guessing their lawyer put them up to it.”

  Anya shrugged. “Why would you want to look guilty if the witness describes one with a beard, why would he shave it off but his brother grow one?”

  Then she realized why. A clever defense lawyer could confuse a witness by asking her to identify in the courtroom the bearded man she claimed had attacked her. Given the strong family resemblance, chances were she would point to the brother who had the beard, rather than the actual attacker, who by now would be clean-shaven. The jury would see she’d made a mistake and suddenly there might be enough doubt for acquittal.

  “We thought the problem with identifying which brother did what was because of how similar they look. These bastards committed crimes knowing they’d take on another brother’s appearance if caught. That’s how they’ve got away with so much before, like the two other trials Natasha was involved with.”

  If there were twenty-five convictions among them for violent crimes, the mind boggled to think what else the career criminal family had got away with.

  More importantly, if the appearance ploy was so successful, then what did they have to fear in Giverny’s testimony?

  8

  Jeff Sales was performing Rachel Goodwin’s post-mortem and invited Anya to attend. It wasn’t necessary, but she felt as though she should be there. She could comment if there were any similarities to the sister’s injuries.

  Beforehand, there was just enough time to check on Sophie in intensive care. Anya stood outside the double plastic doors and buzzed. Through the doors, she made out the figure of a uniformed officer, guarding the victim in case her attacker returned. A nurse appeared in corporate uniform with a white plastic apron on top.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Doctor Crichton, forensic physician. I examined Sophie Goodwin yesterday.”

  “Detective Farrer said you might pop in and put you on the visitors’ list.”

  Kate knew Anya well enough to understand why she would want to check in on Sophie now and again.

  “How’s the patient doing?”

  “Not too well. Still on a ventilator. Urine output’s poor, she’s on dopamine and noradrenaline infusions and just maintaining blood pressure. Our intensivist thinks she’s oozing from one of the abdominal wounds so she may have to go back to theater.” The nurse lowered her eyes. “Still critical condition, I’m afraid.”

  Anya thought of the parent she had seen outside casualty and the hell he must be going through.

  “How is her father coping?”

  “As you’d expect. Poor, poor man. He’s devastated and just sits holding his daughter’s hand. We can’t get him to rest or take a break.” She touched Anya’s arm. “Maybe if you’re here he will take a few minutes. I’ll go tell him.”

  “No. Please don’t. I can’t stay.” The truth was, even if she had time, Anya had no idea how to deal with a grieving father whose life had been ripped apart by senseless killing. “We didn’t actually meet.”

  The nurse nodded. “Can I at least tell him you stopped by?”

  “No need to bother him. I’ll check back later.”

  Medical school taught facts and formulae, but not how to handle grieving relatives, many of whom were angry and had every right to be. Pathology had the advantage of being clinical and removed from the emotional fallout of death, while helping family to get answers and achieve closure.

  But even that hadn’t been completely satisfying. Frustrated by the lack of expertise in sexual assault injuries, Anya had decided to train physicians in examinations and specific wound interpretation. In the process she had become more expert than anyone else in the state and therefore in high demand by police and prosecutors. It had given her an avenue into specialized private practice, and enough income to pay maintenance to her ex-husband and support their son.

  The worst aspect about dealing with sexual assault was that she was thrown back into dealing with victims, relatives and their emotional distress. Anya never felt more inadequate than when dealing with people’s emotions. No amount of experience could make her feel adept in the role of comforter. She would be of no possible help to Mr. Goodwin.

  Maybe that was because she’d seen her parents in a similar position after losing Miriam. Nothing anyone said helped, and often comments proved upsetting and insensitive, despite being well intentioned.

  She followed the path to the lifts and headed to the lowest level. The secretary buzzed her in and informed her that Jeff Sales was already in the autopsy suite.
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br />   Down the corridor, with a plastic apron and shoe covers to protect her clothes, she entered the familiar suite. The smell of formalin filled her nostrils. Four of the eight stainless steel tables were in use, which meant a slow morning in this part of the city.

  Liz Gould had “babysitting duty.” She and Shaun Wheeler stood just past arm’s reach from the remains of Rachel Goodwin.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Liz blurted, seemingly grateful for the distraction.

  Anya had never known a member of the police to enjoy attending post-mortems. Kate was habitually late for the event, timing her arrival for the summary at the end.

  “Remember Shaun?”

  Anya nodded.

  The young detective uncrossed his arms and raised a hand but failed to speak. His cheeks had even less color than at the crime scene. She gave him a sympathetic glance. Sqeamishness was something only experience would help him overcome. Or he’d soon be out of Homicide.

  “Here’s something interesting.” Jeff looked up through round rimless lenses.

  Blood no longer obscured the multiple, varied stab wounds and they were prominent on the clean skin.

  The pathologist had a probe in the throat and moved the overhead light for a better view. “The larynx is oedematous, or swollen, as is the epiglottis.” He reached for a pair of tweezers. “There’s something on the back of the left tonsil.”

  He reached in and retrieved two small fibers-pink.

  “From the pink top?” Anya offered.

  “Something was used to gag her and may have even caused some degree of asphyxiation. Taking an educated guess, it could well have been the shirt from the scene.”

  “Hang on,” Liz Gould interrupted. “What do you mean, asphyxiation? She was stabbed-multiple times.”

  “Yes, but it’s not uncommon for attackers to use gags to silence victims, even if they don’t intend for them to die. The nose can become congested and, after a short while, impossible to breathe through. If the gag makes its way toward the back of the throat, it can obstruct the posterior larynx, causing asphyxiation. I grew up thinking gags were harmless, can’t think how many times they were used on The A-Team without anyone getting hurt.” He smiled to himself. “Reality is far different.”

  Liz scratched her head. “Did she suffocate on the gag or not?”

  “Once the lab compares the fiber with that of the shirt we’ll know if it was the one used inside the mouth. Without any markings on the skin around the neck, I’d suggest that something internal caused the swelling in the throat, but not enough to cause death. Given the degree of blood loss from the other wounds, she was still alive when she was stabbed.”

  Anya thought back to the scene. Someone gagged Rachel and maybe removed it while she was still alive, or as she lay dying. She had seen crimes in which a gag had been removed, but only to heighten the thrill of the attack. If that were the case, Rachel’s killer either wanted to hear her scream or beg for mercy. If screaming wasn’t the reason for the gag, its intent must have been to torture the victim even more.

  Anya felt a wave of cold. Sophie may have heard what was happening to her sister in the bedroom. She might have even witnessed it. In a way, the longer the young girl stayed sedated and ventilated, the more time she had to recover before reliving the nightmare.

  Jeff turned his attention to the skin on the dead girl’s chest and abdomen. The shapes of the six wounds varied but the distribution was evenly divided between the chest and abdomen.

  Liz Gould cleared her throat. “Can you tell us anything about the weapon, or are we looking for more than one knife?”

  “Different sized and shaped wounds don’t imply more than one weapon, although I can’t exclude that yet. The shape of the wound isn’t only dependent on the shape of the blade, but also on the properties of the skin and location of the wound. It’s quite possible that all of these were made with the one instrument.”

  Shaun Wheeler had begun taking notes, but paused, looking at two of the skin incisions-one narrow, the other wider. “How can there be that much variation if the blade is just one size-one length and one width?”

  “The force needed for the knife to perforate the skin depends on a number of other things, like the sharpness of the blade’s tip. The sharper that point, the easier it is to penetrate skin.”

  To demonstrate, the pathologist poked his metal probe in one of the wounds. “Once the skin has been cut, the blade slides easily into the body, readily passing through organs.” Most of the metal probe disappeared beneath the skin. “Even a blade driven its entire length can have been inserted without a great degree of force.” He withdrew the probe. “However, if the blade hits bone, the distance it tracks can be much shorter than the length of the blade.”

  “So how can you tell the size of the blade?” Wheeler seemed to have forgotten his queasiness.

  “By examining all of the wounds,” Anya replied. “the blade length can be either less than, equal to or greater than the depth of the wound.”

  “Hold on, how can it be deeper than the blade length?”

  Liz clenched her fist and faced Wheeler. “Say this is a knife. If you are moving toward me and I use a fair amount of force…” She slowly pressed her fist into his upper abdomen until he flexed at the waist.

  Anya continued, “Because your skin is being pushed backward. Once it recoils to its normal position, the end depth of the wound is going to be longer than the blade. It depends on the degree of force used.”

  Wheeler’s face brightened. “That makes sense.”

  “I always say you have to see these things to understand them.” Jeff Sales seemed to enjoy the demonstration. He preferred interaction with staff, or classical music if no one else was around, and reveled in any chance to educate police.

  “Similarly, the length of the skin wound can be equal, less than or greater than the width of the knife.”

  “I must be thick. You’ve got me again,” the younger detective mumbled.

  “Always admit when you’re unsure or don’t understand. There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Liz patted Wheeler on the back. “Mistakes come from not asking. And don’t care what anyone thinks of you. Chances are, if you want to ask it, so do others.”

  Wheeler put the notebook in his back pocket and folded his arms. “Okay. How can the entrance wound be longer than the blade is wide?”

  “Another good question.” Jeff was in his element. “If the blade has one cutting edge, it can slice through the skin, lengthening the incision. Skin is also elastic and that can make the wound shorter than the blade’s width.”

  Liz frowned. “There’s something I don’t quite get. The pink top had a bloodied fingerprint in it. You think it might have been used to gag her, but before she was stabbed, given the amount of blood she lost.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then why does it have bloodstains on it?”

  “Maybe she screamed at the first stab wound and that’s why it was put in,” Jeff suggested.

  “Her hands were tied to the bed, she wasn’t going anywhere. So he stabs her, then stops, with bloodstains on his hands, to stuff her shirt down her throat. We know she’s still alive because of the swelling you mentioned. Then he goes back to stabbing her.”

  “Or moves on to the sister. He could have immobilized Rachel, then attacked Sophie and cut her throat. Thinking she’s dead, he goes back to finish off his first victim,” Wheeler suggested.

  Liz shook her head. “The sadistic bastard would have had blood all over him at that stage.”

  Anya recalled that the house didn’t show signs of someone traipsing through back and forth, with blood on them.

  “Maybe he’s organized,” Wheeler suggested.

  “Or there was more than one killer,” Anya said.

  The prospect of two people combining to commit that degree of violence was even more disturbing. She needed to know more about the pattern of genital injuries.

  “Jeff, what do you not
ice about the vaginal area?”

  “There’s marked purpuric bruising inside the thighs, as you can see.” He moved one knee to face outward and a series of large purplish bruises was apparent.

  Anya moved closer. “There’s tearing of the fourchette and a large hematoma.”

  The lab assistant arrived with a digital camera and without speaking began to photograph the injuries Jeff described.

  “We’ll need closeups, thanks. I’ve taken some swabs,” the senior pathologist added, “but we’ll have to wait and see. There were a couple of darker pubic hairs, none with roots, I’m afraid.”

  Jeff concluded the gross examination with photos of the probe through each incision. Then began the long process of internal examination.

  Anya’s mind wandered to the scene. “Were any of the locks damaged?”

  Liz shook her head. Whoever it was walked in the front door, or pushed their way in once it was open. The girls could have known their attacker or attackers.

  “Do you have any suspects yet?”

  The female detective frowned and waited for the stryker saw to stop.

  “Still canvassing the neighbors, who don’t seem to have seen or heard anything. We’ve had only a few calls after a media appeal for witnesses to come forward, but nothing helpful as far as we know.”

  Anya had once assumed that people would feel so disgusted by what had happened to victims like the Goodwin girls that they would willingly volunteer information. She had learned over the years that many people were too scared to get involved with the police, or too busy to be aware of what appeared on the news or in papers.

  Jeff Sales looked up from his task. “What about an angry ex-boyfriend? Nothing like a disturbed lover who’s been spurned. The worst examples of violence against women are by men who claim to love them more than anyone else.”

  One of Anya’s first pathology cases was the massacre of an ex-girlfriend and seven of her family members. The former boyfriend had gone to the home and blown off the mother and little brother’s faces with a shotgun, then casually driven to the family business and killed the remaining members, leaving his ex-girlfriend until last. Even in prison he still claimed that he loved her more than anyone else ever had.