Jill stretched and took another sip of her Pepsi Max. She couldn't settle into this case. With her feet up on her desk, she ignored the muscle pain from her workout that morning and tapped into the COPS database, searching for updates on the murders of Dennis Rocla and George Manzi, also known as George Marks.
Within moments, she found what she was looking for.
'I knew it,' she breathed, sitting up straight in her chair, bringing her face close to the computer screen. She looked up from the database and punched in Scotty's mobile number.
'The dead guys in Woolloomooloo and Lane Cove' – Jill was speaking before Scotty had even said hello – 'Manzi and Rocla. I told you they were squirrels. They've both got sex offender sheets. This is the same killer. The same person killed them and Carter. I know it. Someone is getting payback.'
Scotty sighed. Then there was silence for a few beats. 'Shit. Yeah, maybe. Who knows? But if you're right, Jill, we're talking about a mass murderer now, not a simple bashing at the beach. This is gonna be big. Bigger than us.' He sounded tired. 'Who's working the Rocky and Manzi cases? I guess we'd better go talk to them.'
'It'sRocla, Dennis Rocla, not Rocky,' said Jill. 'And Harris and Jardine are working both cases over at Central.' She tried to keep the last part casual.
'Aw, fuck! Why'd it have to be them?'
'Yeah, anyway. How's Madison's dad?' Best to change the subject. Scotty had a history with Harris and Jardine. Elvis's cronies.
'Let's just say he's not in mourning for Carter,' he answered. 'You wouldn't believe it, J. He shook my hand when I told him Carter was dead. He actually offered me champagne – at ten in the morning.' Scotty laughed. 'He's still pretty cut up about what happened, but the whole family's in the clear. They arrived back from a trip to China yesterday arvo. Couple of bags were still in the hall.'
'So when are you coming back?' asked Jill. Alibi or no, she and Scotty had thought it unlikely Jiang Lee would have carried through his threats to kill Carter. An accountant from Strathfield in Sydney's Inner West, Lee was a Buddhist with two young kids and a wife. He might have wanted Carter dead, but he just wasn't the type to kill him.
'I'm coming in now. You want to go for a swim and get some KFC?'
Jill smiled. 'Yeah, whatever. See you when you get here.'
Within thirty seconds of re-scanning the database, she'd dropped the smile. Manzi and Rocla had both been investigated for separate alleged sex offences dating back at least ten years. The three victims had not come forward until they were young adults. She noted the COPS event numbers that linked the complaints to the men, and typed one of the numbers into the computer. The database accessed a 2001 complaint by a then 18-year-old man who'd claimed that eight years earlier Manzi had raped him in a caravan. She copied down the complainant's name and address – a home in Castle Hill. She copied the contact number into her notebook and picked up the phone. Travis O'Hare.
Ten minutes later, Jill's blue eyes were wide. O'Hare no longer lived at the Castle Hill address, but she'd managed to speak to his older brother. He didn't have a lot of time for Travis, but his diatribe against him had thrown up an interesting detail. A coincidence? Maybe. Jill accessed the database again and located contacts for Rocla's two victims.
'Scotty, where are you now?' She had the phone tucked under her ear, leaving her hands free to shove her notes into her briefcase. 'We're driving out to Richmond this afternoon to interview the shrink. You're not gonna believe this.'
7
Wayne Crabbe had tried singles clubs and got lucky a few times, but he found it was a lot of work to get to the action in the end. The women were more careful these days, and would usually expect to be taken out a few times before you got to meet their kids. Then they'd be watchful for a while, and before you knew it you were spending half your life with a fat, ugly hag waiting for moments that might never come. And the longer you were with these bitches, the more they could learn about you. He hated the waiting. He wanted to be in and out. Minimum of fuss. No harm done.
Wayne had come up with the job offer idea while with a western suburbs troll who had a beautiful nine-year-old boy. She'd desperately wanted a job and all she ever did was whine about how hard it was to find one. When he met another mum one morning in a doctor's surgery, scanning the job ads, he came up with the plan on the spot.
'Excuse me,' he smiled at Rose Deloso, a dark-haired woman wearing a neat tracksuit. 'You're not looking for a job, are you?'
The woman looked him over, her brow furrowed, and said nothing. He nodded at the columns in the paper she was poring over.
'It's just that I'm having trouble filling a job.' He smiled reassuringly, trying hard not to look at the boy playing with Lego at her feet. 'You're not by any chance interested in casual work at a cafe, are you?'
'Really? Are you serious?' She was smiling now too. 'I mean, yeah, I'm looking for work. Are you for real?'
'Yep. You wouldn't believe how hard it's been getting someone to work the hours we need.'
'Well, I'm only looking for school-hours work.' She looked at him doubtfully, 'I've got to pick the kids up at three. Well, except for Fridays, when their dad's got them.'
'It's hard, isn't it, when you're on your own?' Wayne tried for empathy. 'I've just got one son. Me and his mum thought it would be best to have him a week each. It's working out pretty well, but only because my mother can drop him at school. I'm right to pick him up. You don't have anyone to help you out?'
'Nope. My parents still work themselves. It's just me, I'm afraid.'
Bingo.
Wayne smiled again, warm, but professional. 'Well, I can't promise you the job now, but we actually need someone ten till two, for the lunchtime crowd. Monday to Friday. If that suits, we could both be happy.'
'Oh my God, I can't believe this,' she laughed. 'This is the last thing I thought would happen here.' She self-consciously smoothed her ponytail, sat straighter, and shushed her delicious five-year-old boy, who was playing with the germ-infested clinic toys. 'Well, what should we do? How can I apply? Should I give you my mobile number?'
As easy as that.
'Look,' he said, thinking fast. 'You should have a look at the place first.' He gave her the location of a Burwood cafe he frequented. It was next to the railway station and was popular with the after-school rush.
'Listen though,' he added, leaning forward slightly, 'I'm the owner, not the manager, and the manageress is a bit, well, territorial. She likes to do the hiring and firing.' He smiled with chagrin, shrugged his shoulders. 'Would you mind not saying anything about the job when you have a look? Save me any conflict with Cath? I'll speak to her and call you in for a formal interview if she hasn't found anyone. What do you think?'
'Yeah, okay. Sure. I'll go have a look. And you'll call about an interview?' Rose was standing now, hurrying her son. Her name had been announced by the receptionist; it was her turn to see the doctor.
'I'll call you tomorrow,' he said, tucking her number into his pocket. Now to get into her house. Wayne called Rose the next morning. Could she come in for an interview? Eleven tomorrow? Great.
Another call that afternoon. So sorry. A last-minute appointment in Brisbane had come up. He'd call her on his return.
Wayne's tone was polite but friendly when he called Rose the third time.
'Rose, I've spoken to Cath and she'd like to meet you. It's busy at work, though, and it'd be easiest for her if we stopped in at your house for a coffee after work tomorrow. Do you think that's okay? She knocks off at six. We could drop 'round at 6.30, and be gone by seven. What do you think?'
Rose seemed hesitant, somewhat puzzled, but was eventually won over. She wanted the job, and when Wayne arrived, alone and apologetic, bearing chocolate mud cake with Rohypnol-laced icing, she let him in.
Wayne made sure she had the biggest slice, and fifteen minutes later, with Mummy sound asleep with her face in the cake, he went to play birthday parties with the five-year-old.
8
Carole Dean had finally hung up. Standing at the base of her winding gravel driveway, still in her pyjamas, Mercy dropped the phone handset into her dressing-gown pocket. She should've let the call go to the answering machine. When she'd realised it was Carole on the line, she'd resignedly taken the phone and her cigarettes out the front door. At least she could distract herself with the sky and trees as she reassured Carole that she was fine.
Mercy had been proud of her saccharine chatter throughout the call. She'd worked with this woman for years, and knew that Carole would never back off if Mercy couldn't convince her that yesterday had been an anomaly, that she just needed a good rest.
Wrapping her gown closer around her body, Mercy went back inside and looked around guardedly, almost as though she expected to see something unusual there. As it happened, this was not an ordinary house. Perched on the precipice of a cliff dropping to a deep ravine in the Blue Mountains, almost the entire back wall of the split-level house was glass. The effect was of living in the sky above a vast bush canyon; indeed, at the moment, clouds on the balcony whorled insistently as though indignant at being denied entry. Two galahs scratched at the jarrah decking, calling occasionally for more seed to be scattered.
It was always at least ten degrees cooler at Mercy's home than anywhere else in Sydney, and she shivered slightly as she stepped down to her sunken lounge, reaching automatically for the remote to play some music. She nudged the volume lower and the Japanese harps soothed her somewhat.
What the hell was happening to her? She stared down at her bandaged hand, fascinated by the white gauze marked by the bloom of red blood.
Her clinical supervisor, Dr Noah Griffen, had been warning her for months that she was taking on too many abuse cases, that she was at risk of burning out. She'd listened impatiently, resentful at having to spend more time at the hospital to attend these sessions. Regular clinical supervision was a requirement of her employment, though, and if she missed more than six of the weekly sessions in a year she had to answer to the Clinical Director.
She had been attending supervision with Griffen for ten years now, and had, in fact, decided to consult at the Sisters of Charity Hospital because of her mentor's practice there, but she'd grown increasingly intolerant of his admonitions to reduce her caseload. It wasn't like he wasn't doing the same kind of work.
Mercy's expertise with survivors of childhood sexual abuse had led to a lengthy waiting list for her services, and she felt unable to turn down the individuals who sought her help. But as the years had passed working with this population, she found herself in tears more often than not as they told their stories. She was increasingly unable to stop her imagination from conjuring images of the abuse they had endured, which would vie for space with memories of the beatings from her own childhood. A flame of hatred for the offenders was stoked with each new tale of suffering.
One sleepless night, after speaking with an eighteen-yearold girl slowly dying of anorexia nervosa, she had realised that this patient's file was still in her bag. Snapping on her bedside light, she had pulled the thick hospital folder onto her bed, hoping to find something within its contents that could help her with this young woman.
The girl had been repeatedly hospitalised since she was twelve, when she had tried to kill herself by taking every tablet in her home, washed down with disinfectant from the laundry cupboard. It wasn't until the year before, however, that she'd disclosed that her father had been selling her to his mates for beer for as long as she could remember. Although she'd now made a police statement against him, the DPP was still struggling to gather sufficient evidence to bring him to trial. In the meantime, this man was at home while his daughter fought for her life in hospital.
Impotent rage engulfed Mercy as she flicked through the file. Suddenly something snagged at her consciousness, and she stopped. She turned back a page, then another. There. An address. The father's address. The place where he was probably even now sleeping drunkenly while his daughter was nourished through a nasogastric tube.
It wasn't far from here, actually. Windsor. She felt a thrill of surprise that she could drive to the house of a monster right now and knock on his door. She could see what such a man would look like, could speak to him; throw a brick through his window if she wanted to. She could tell this man what he had done to his child. Make him listen. Sit him down and force-feed him tales of the horror that she listened to every day. He wouldn't care; she knew that. He'd rationalise his way through what she was saying; he'd call the police, make her out to be the crazy one. He'd get away with it. They always did.
Windsor. She had his address. It had not been difficult to access the identities of her victims' attackers once she'd started looking. In the past, Mercy had skipped these people's names when she came across them. They had no meaning for her; they did not help her to assist her patients.
When she decided to pay attention, however, Mercy found it surprisingly easy to gather facts about the offenders. They were identified in police statements, court documents, Apprehended Violence Orders – many of these documents were in her patients' files. Often the perpetrators' addresses were right there, their pseudonyms, sometimes even the names of other accusers. Sometimes officials had gone through and blacked out such details, but this would most often happen with one document and not another. Mercy soon had profiles on several men.
She began to work on these files late at night, also incorporating information she'd gleaned from her patients during therapy. She'd found herself specifically asking questions during the sessions that would fill holes in her knowledge about the offenders. She'd jot the missing details in her work notes, and then transfer them to her offender files when she got home.
Mercy began to notice patterns. Carly Kaplan had said that her abuser had made her dress as a fairy and a princess. He'd made Carly and her friend Brianna touch each other, and had taken photographs. Kathy Lin, another patient, had been abused by her father, but one evening he'd entertained a friend who'd also had Kathy and her sister dress as princesses while he photographed them. Kathy's description of this man – when Mercy had asked during their last session – had been very similar to the one given of the offender in Carly's police statement.
Then there was John Jacobs. One of Mercy's most damaged patients, he was able to work on memories of his abuse maybe only once or twice a year. Otherwise he spent months on the acute psychosis ward of the hospital while doctors tried to stabilise his medication. Both of his arms, from fingertips to shoulders, were a mutilated mess. He would carve and burn them, trying to release the demons he believed lived inside his body. He'd also mutilated his genitals, sure that the devil had control of his sex organs, and once, after stabbing himself in the stomach to punish himself for becoming sexually aroused, emergency surgery had been necessary to save him from dying.
John's file told a harrowing story. Removed from his parents as a mute and unresponsive toddler, bruises covering his body, he'd been placed in a group home. Made a ward of the state because of his parents' neglect, he was eligible to be adopted, but staff waited until they could determine whether he would improve and what legacies he might have been left with. His DoCS case notes indicated he'd rapidly responded to care and attention, learning to talk and walk, and endearing himself to staff. He'd been adopted by a family who already had two sons, and no significant entries were made in the file for several years. At age ten, he'd been temporarily returned to the care of the state. His adoptive parents had complained that he was aggressive, wouldn't shower, and was non-compliant. One caseworker had labelled the adoptive father as 'controlling' and 'aggressive'. Another had said that John was 'attention-seeking' and had 'deliberately sabotaged his placement' because of 'an inferiority complex'. The same writer had noted and dismissed John's claims that his adoptive father had molested him.
Although repeatedly exposed to it, Mercy never ceased to be horrified by the ineptitude of some of the departmental carers these children were entrusted to. The departme
nt claimed to have lost the remainder of John Jacobs' file, but he'd told Mercy that he'd been repeatedly sent back to the same family until he ran away at the age of fourteen and lived on the streets.
John's account of his time with the family was disjointed and blurred by delusional thinking, but one theme predominated. He claimed he'd been a prize in a game played by a group of men. His adoptive father played the game and John had been a 'party favour', swapped around amongst members of the group. Because he also spoke of the Secret Service using his brain to create a supercomputer that would one day control the world, Mercy had always only half-listened to him, aware that his words were distorted by mental illness.
Now, however, she scavenged through his account, foraging for potential truths amongst the chaos that was this patient's reality.
Her files were growing daily.
9
'I don't see why we had to come out here this arvo,' grumbled Scotty, steering the car with one hand, nursing a Pepsi with the other. To accommodate his long legs, he had adjusted the seat back as far as it would go; he was practically sitting in the back seat.
Beside him, an open street directory lay on Jill's lap. Her feet were up on the dashboard.
'Are you serious?' she asked. 'Don't you think it's kind of significant that Mercy Merris has counselled victims of all three dead men? We've got to talk to her – she could be a link.'
'Yeah, but it's boiling. And we're going to Richmond, for God's sake. We could've just called her.'
Jill had called Mercy, and she knew they were coming.
They'd been driving west for just over an hour. The builtup shopping strips and unit-blocks had given way to huge, blank-faced factory estates as they made their way through the afternoon traffic. It seemed like half of Sydney was heading home to the western suburbs.
Vodka doesn't freeze jj-1 Page 4
